Preoccupied
by Blue Tears
Summary: When Roger and Mark get a little preoccupied with each other their ‘accessories’ also get better acquainted. Only way to explain: Mark’s CameraRoger’s Guitar. Other Pairings Mentioned
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Fandom: **Rent

**Paring:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Mark's Camera/Mark's Scarf, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** When Roger and Mark get a little preoccupied with each other their 'accessories' also get better acquainted.

**Rating: **PG-13

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN: **Think _Brave Little Toaster_. I am obviously on crack cocaine or have been watching the icon by notapopstar too much. :D Oh, even better, written from Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied **

Everything is dark. 

Cold metal has suddenly heated up beyond the normal room temperature.

The only sound I can pick up in the dingy loft is the frantic rustling of fabric and a smattering of breathy moans. I have heard those sounds before. The familiar leather jacket has obscured my lens as I'm pressed against Roger's chest, sandwiched between my Mark and his longtime roommate. What a wonderful place to find myself nestled in. A little spiral of unadulterated glee rattling the loose screws holding me together, making my overexposed film wind up extra tight. Late at night, when my Mark knows his Roger is asleep, he tells me things he does not want anyone else to hear. And this, this proximity between my Mark and his Roger is exactly what he has been dreaming of since that crazy rocker chick with the bad needles left in a torrent of blood that my Mark had to spend days on his hands and knees cleaning up.

Suddenly I feel my Mark's cold fingers grip my sides tightly, but only for an instant, before relaxing his hold on me. I'm nearly dropped.

Only Mark's Roger could make him drop _me_.

But I can't blame my Mark.

Hell, as he always says whenever his Roger gets into one of his 'funks' and becomes annoyed with my overabundant presents, "My Camera simply loves you, Roger."

Mark's Roger pulls away from my Mark and everything is bathed in pale moonlight, glinting off the stainless steel table where Roger's old acoustic guitar lays silent. Suddenly I see the table get bigger as I'm placed beside the guitar with a loud clank of my metal bottom colliding roughly with the steel. Everything shakes for a moment as I watch my Mark being pressed against the table by his Roger. My sweet, quiet, lovable Mark, the one I protect day in and out, whispers something in his Roger's ear that makes the faded 'Rock God' blush so deeply I can see the bright color of it in the dim light. A wild smile pulls at his Roger's lips as he warms up to whatever dirty fantasy my Mark has described in surprising lewd detail and his Roger's long, callused fingers wrap around my most Beloved, Mark's scarf. Mark's Roger pulls my Beloved from my Mark's neck and loosely loops my Beloved around my Mark's wrists before dragging him off to my Mark's bedroom.

"Let him go!" I feel my flimsy film nearly tear in anger as I scream in vain at Mark's Roger. To think of him manhandling my Beloved!

"Hey, woah, calm down little buddy." A smooth, singsong voice answers my desperate shout. My head spins as I swing my gaze over to Roger's acoustic guitar lying on the table beside me. I've never been alone with him before, Roger's guitar. My Mark and I are always off somewhere or else we're filming his Roger playing the guitar. But I've never had the chance to get to know the guitar, unlike my Beloved.

"Rog won't hurt your little friends. Trust me, as many crappy-ass love songs he's "composed" about your Mark he would never, ever do anything to hurt him." A part of me looses as I listen to the calming voice. The inflexions are slightly inebriating. Maybe Roger's guitar is right, my Beloved and my Mark will both be okay.

"I guess. But Mark's Scarf…" I trail off, zooming in on the crack of my Mark's door as soon as I hear a yelp from my Mark and a low teasing laugh from his Roger. If I could blush I would have.

"Is a slut." Roger's guitar finishes my thought in that same intoxicating singsong voice that's so like my Mark's Roger's beautiful tone.

Wait.

"Excuse me?" How dare Roger's guitar say something like that about my most Beloved? Like my Mark's Roger, his guitar has no tact or skill whatsoever when talking to others.

"Mark's Scarf, your little boyfriend. He's a slut." He pauses and looks at me, cords taut and dull wood shining like new in the moonlight. How dare he be so elegant in the moonlight while he speaks of my Beloved! "You really think he likes you, yeah right. He's way to wrapped up in Mark. He's simply messing around with you because Mark talks to you and not him." I sit there stunned. No, it's not true. It can't be true. My Beloved loves me but respects my Mark like I do…not love.

For a few long moments that seem to last an hour I can't say anything in response. My Mark was never one for witty snapbacks on the spot and neither am I but I refuse to let my Beloved's honor go on being besmertched by this, this, this old, dull, taut, loved, sleek, amazing guitar I film everyday.

"Well, I don't see you with anyone. Plus, you should know all about inanimate-human relationships, getting fingered everyday by Roger! Always crooning exactly like he wants you to, playing right into his hands."

"Like you don't do the same for Mark!" I hear his voice break out of the singsong pattern as he tries to defend himself.

A loud shout of my Mark's name pours from Roger's lips in a low moan that leaves an uncomfortable pause in our argument. Again, if I could blush I would have, a deep, deep red.

"Listen, I'm sorry…I…" I begin, like my Mark, always the one to try and make-up first.

"Yeah, uhh, sorry." From the sour note I can tell that, like with my Mark's Roger, 'sorry' is not an often heard or used word. Another long pause fills the air as we both hear my Mark and his Roger whisper.

Their voices make a perfect harmony in my mind.

Wholly different from one another, yet perfect together.

Filmmaker and his favorite subject.

Camera and his most vocal muse.

"I really like filming you," another would be deep flush, "when Roger plays you, I mean. You sound beautiful. You're so alive."

"Really?" I can tell from his voice he would be flushed bright pink. Strange to hear something of Roger's being shy and even coy. "I would think both you and Mark would be sick of Roger's wonderful rendition of Musetta's Waltz." He tries to brush off the compliment as Roger does with my Mark.

"Not when it's you he's playing." I move closer, an errant screw catching on a taut cord, pulling at it in a surprisingly teasing manner. A beautiful note, in his singsong voice is the seductive response.

The half used roll of film winds so tight I can hear it snap.

* * *

"Roger, what did you do to my camera?" my Mark's sleep laden voice brings me back to reality, his fingers trace over the hairline fracture in my lens before tugging anxiously at my ruined film, several rolls of it threaded through the recently loosened cords of Roger's guitar that Mark's Roger will have to retune. 

"What?" A half naked Mark's Roger stumbles out from my Mark's bedroom, hair mussed and shooting out in all different directions, the perfect morning shot my Mark would adore to have, that is if I hadn't shot my load of film.

* * *

**AN**: Ridiculous. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Paring:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Mark's Camera/Mark's Scarf, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** Sex, drugs and rock n' roll, baby!

**Rating: **Chapter Two: R

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN:** Finals over, commence with more crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Probably not as funny as first one, but I'll try. :D Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Two**

I am over the moon.

My Mark decided to come.

The very instant my Mark walks into the sleazy bar a few blocks away from the loft, I let out an exasperated sigh. Can we not go somewhere clean for once? I just _know_ that every single frame of film I shoot tonight will probably be ruined by the proverbial haze of smoke permeating throughout the small venue where my Mark's Roger is performing. However, that does nothing to daunt my intrepid little Mark's ambitions of capturing Roger's return to the musical stage of his life since the needle girls left him. Clutching me tight to his chest, my Mark manages to squeeze his way through the pretty decent sized crowd gathered around the makeshift stage the bar has set up for gigs. A few wiry girls, all in black leather and lace, try to wrap their arms around my more than surprised Mark and pull him in for a dance. He politely tries to refuse the offer, having to shout over the rifts tearing through the air and blocking out all other noise. Thank you Roger's Fender. My poor Mark has never learned how to dance to his Roger's music. At least not the harsh chords that Roger plays on that annoyingly conceited, electric guitar, The Fender.

I would definitely take Roger's beautifully handcrafted acoustic over the mass-produced, flashy Fender any day.

Oh, I already have. The sweet image of my Mark's goofy smile from early this morning dances around in my mind, that same grin would be plastered all over my lips if I only had a mouth.

Once getting away from the more than willing hoard of girls, my Mark makes it to the opposite side of the small club. I hear the music begin a strange semblance of a crescendo, a beautiful term as such not really applicable to The Fender's style, begin as my Mark takes a seat on one of the many open bar stools. That is one thing my Mark's Roger has always had, the stage presents and charisma to get everyone on his or her feet. Well, save for my Mark, ever conscious of the need for a steady hand. I know that adorable smile, the one that makes him look so sweet, is pulling at his lips by the way his fingers gingerly wind me up for the long haul.

"Darling," I visibly flinch and thankfully my Mark just things he lots his grip. Soft fabric brushes against my back as my Mark holds me against his chest to steady his hand. All day my Beloved has been trying to get me to talk to him. Explain what happened, why _I_ cheated.

He's my perfect stand-in Maureen.

I ignore him. Again.

"Close on Roger, inside the Pyramid club finishing up his first set on his good old Fender," my Mark whispers to me, just loud enough so that I can pick up the vibrations of his voice and record them. He purposely leaves out the lengthy debate he had with himself, or rather with me, though I was not filming, whether or not he should show up tonight. This morning my Mark and his Roger barely said more than a hand full of sentences to one another after discovering my self and Roger's guitar in a rather compromising position. I could tell from the way they were acting neither one knew how to behave now they had finally crossed that threshold from friends to lovers.

The only thing of real consequence that was said this morning was Roger's open-ended invitation to my Mark to come see him at the Pyramid tonight for one of his gigs. I know for a fact that my Mark's heart simply soared when he heard that his Roger was playing again, actually playing for a live crowd, not just sitting at home with a notebook full of unfinished songs.

He zooms me in on Roger's face. There is an intense expression on his countenance as he strums the final chord. As the last note dies, I watch Roger crouch down, falling outside of my frame and disappearing behind the swarm of fans that remember him from his glory days. When he stands back up I see the worn and torn strap of his acoustic guitar slung across his shoulder. A hush falls over the crowd as they watch Roger's entire demeanor change; so drastic it's nearly tangible.

"I'm gonna switch things up a bit here, if that's all right," he mumbles into the microphone, lips brushing against the cool metal. That same melancholy mood wraps around his entire form as he places his fingers on the neck of the guitar. A twinge of jealousy spins my film extra fast and suddenly my Mark needs to crank me up again. The pad of Roger's thumb trails over the taut cords he retuned this morning. He strokes the guitar until it sings perfectly for him.

For me.

For _our_ Mark.

There is a striking dichotomy occurring in this instant that I have never experienced before at any of Roger's other gigs. On one dimension, my Mark's and his Roger's, there is a pretty boy musician's and his husky voice crooning out a surprisingly unique and artful love song for my Mark. The second, the one that belongs to myself and everything else not breathing in the club, is filled with the haunting melody produced by Roger's guitar. A song twisted and tweaked into something remarkably romantic for an inanimate object. There was always a simple harmony between the chords Roger would play and his powerful voice, the two not needing to blend because they were always in agreement. It had been that was only moments before with The Fender. Now they seemed to be the two separate entities, mixing and taking parts from one another to build upon. His guitar is not singing for what Roger is, it's something else.

It's mesmerizing.

The audience knows it, can feel it, as they stand transfixed watching Roger. No one makes a sound, barely moving to breath. Even my Mark picked up on the difference, lowering me to focus my lens on the guitar's long neck. He pans me down the neck. I've been transported beyond heaven. The sleek polished wooden body, carved to perfection with a fluid curve.

My Mark finally shifts my focus back onto Roger's face. I see his eyes move from a point somewhere just beyond the crowd. My Mark told me once when he first met the musician that it's a trick Roger uses so he does not have to make direct eye contact with the audience, yet appear to be doing so. A little façade. Panning across the dimly lit club his gaze finally settles on the bar where we are seated.

He looks beyond me and smiles.

If his guitar only had a _real_ mouth.

* * *

Roger is two steps ahead. 

A smile was all they exchanged before heading back to the loft.

It's a familiar sight and it would normally give me some sense of comfort. Though, now the image of my Mark's Roger walking away from my Mark, appearing to be alone, makes me inexorably sad. My Mark's Roger has long legs that my poor Mark can not hope to match so he resigns himself to filming Roger walking in front of us. In one hand is The Fender, packed safely away, protected from the elements while the acoustic guitar is slung across his leather covered back, facing me.

"You were amazing tonight." I call out to the guitar with a would-be proud grin evident in my voice. Suddenly the guitar looses its holding and I watch as Roger has to hitch up the strap around his shoulders to keep it from slipping.

"Thanks." He calls back; I know I caught him off guard. I had not had a chance to speak to the guitar since my Mark and his Roger went their separate ways this morning. "I'm glad you and Mark decided to come," his words are sung once more in that same beautiful melody I heard tonight at the club. A twinkling laugh follows and I almost tear another roll of film. I could spend all day filming him. "Roger was freaking out, well in his own 'brooding-Roger' way," I can tell he has learned a lot from Roger, the classic transferring his own emotions on to someone else.

"I'll admit I was a little frightened when Roger pulled you out, I wasn't sure if the crowd would go for something a bit more…subdued." Light humor, something my Mark would probably say. It's actually quite beautiful what Roger can do when he mixes his voice with the acoustic guitar, soft yet haunting and extremely powerful. However, taking a page from my Mark's book, I don't say this out loud of course. Can't give away too much, far too vulnerable.

"I think they liked it," the guitar sighs, a little bit of the tune gone flat. "I hope they did." I stare at him with an odd sensation washing over me, feeling the waves of insecurity that Roger bottles up radiating from the guitar. Suddenly the soft jostling from Mark's even gate stops and the image of the guitar is replaced with black leather.

Roger has stopped and turned towards my Mark, but his gaze is focused on the ground my Mark is standing on. A heavy sigh passes from between Roger's lips and he takes a small leap, looking up at my Mark.

"Mark," he extends his hand towards my Mark.

I wish I were filming.

The image is too beautiful, too real, too raw. Standing alone on the grimy streets of Alphabet city, Roger finally opens himself up for my Mark to accept or deny. Hope flits across Roger's face, his hand palm up and waiting for a warm human touch. Everything hangs on what my Mark does next.

Two steps forward, or another back.

I feel myself being shifted from my Mark's right hand to the left. My Beloved brushes against me as I'm moved to the other side of my Mark's body. I hear a dull thud of Roger's guitar slipping around to rest on the man's hipbone, straining to see where I've been moved.

"Darling," a hiss.

I call out for Roger's guitar.

My Mark laces his fingers with his Roger's.

* * *

"Close on the newly born-again Rock Star, Roger Davis. Just returning home from his premiere show at the Pyramid." Mark narrates to me as he somehow manages to walk rather gracefully backwards up the stairs. Surprisingly, he has yet to fall and bump me in any way that will render my film completely unusable. Roger is slowly walking up the stairs, the correct way, with a broad grin pulling at his lips before winking playfully at me and licking his lips in a rather raunchy display. 

Film rips.

My Mark pauses as he reaches the floor of the loft.

"This time with a little less rock and a lot more soul," my old cheesy Mark, how I adore him. A short laugh dies on Roger's lips.

"And a complete lack of drugs." I can't stop myself from zooming in on Roger's melancholy expression as he speaks. These strange moods that Roger goes through are moments that fascinate my Mark. Something in Roger's eyes changes, the color burning deeper as his gaze looks beyond my lens, like he did back at the club.

Directly at my Mark.

A mischievous grin I used to see all the time, but very rarely as of late, pulls at Roger's lips. He takes a few steps closer to my Mark but remains the same size as I feel my Mark back away unsure what devious thoughts are going through Roger's mind. Everything jumps slightly as my Mark's back collides with the loft's door. The warm, rough flesh of Roger's hand caresses my cool metal, traveling along my side before pushing me away from my Mark's face. He is completely out of the frame; save for a leather clad shoulder. I can see the still image perfectly in my mind however, my Mark's eyes wide and Roger's hand now gently gripping his chin. The soft sound of lips moving against one another, followed by the clang of metal as the loft door is shoved open behind my Mark's back. He stumbles back inside the loft. I catching something Roger says, the words breathy and half formed as he tries to kiss my Mark and speak at the same time, "but plenty of sex."

* * *

Beautifully callused, long tapered fingers dig roughly into the short strands of blond hair at the nape of my Mark's neck. A thumb, the same that stroked his guitar, presses against the straining muscles of my Mark's neck as his head bobs. Those thin veins, polluted with the one thing that my Mark is truly terrified of, rise to the surface of his flesh as Roger's grip tightens. Head tossed to the side, pressing against the cushion of the back of the sofa, Roger murmurs something unintelligible, punctuated every so often with my Mark's name in a quiet moan. The full expanse of his throat is exposed, Adam's apple jumping as he gasps for air. 

I have to bite back a whimper. Beside me I hear a beautiful low note slip from Roger's acoustic guitar, something similar to an open G-string. It's torture to watch them have at it while we can do nothing about our own…carnal desires when they are still in the room. Even worse, the view of exactly what my Mark's hot mouth is doing to make Roger writhe is blocked by my Beloved, his fabric still wrapped tight around my Mark's neck and falling to hid his flushed face.

Both men distracted, I sense a chance to shift closer to Roger's guitar. The cool metal of my body brushes gently along his long neck and I shiver, those old loose screws rattling again. I feel my entire body hum as Roger groans low in the back of his throat, reaching the completion that his guitar and I are a breath away from. The sound is almost musical, or that may be the resonating note that his guitar cannot manage to stifle as he hears me whimper again.

However, as soon as my Mark pulls his lips away from his Roger, I see it. The image that will forever be burned onto my lens, ghosted onto ever strip of film that courses through my little mechanical body.

My Beloved, in all his glory, tangled and zipped wantonly into the fly of my Mark's Roger's own much-loved threadbare Plaid Pants.

Slut.

* * *

**AN**: Uhh, what _was_ that? 


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Mark's Camera/Mark's Scarf, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** Bedtime!

**Rating: **Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN: **More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Three**

Okay. I'll admit it.

I've always had a particularly large weak spot for Roger's Plaid Pants. They're just, well, to be honest, they're hot, like everything my Mark's lucky boy Roger owns. However, that does not mean that my Beloved has permission to go around getting himself _zipped_ into the fly of Roger's Plaid Pants. Plus, I have always just assumed that the Plaid Pants were pretty much obsessed with Roger. I mean what pair of tight pants a guy wears everyday wouldn't be, especially when it gets hot in the summer and Roger decides that it's 'a good idea' to go commando. And, had my Beloved simply asked, I would have gladly done a three-way with him and the Plaid Pants.

But that is irrelevant now since I've had the chance to get to know Roger's acoustic guitar _a lot_ better in the past two days. The acoustic guitar, however, is still back in the loft's 'living room' on the small table seated before the couch. I let out a small giddy laugh thinking about Roger's guitar, sounding in my Mark's ears like spinning film as he begins to wind me up to film his usual 'day in review' before going to sleep. My Mark cradles me in his hands as he walks to his room while his Roger is busy brushing his teeth down the hall in the bathroom. The metal base of my body makes a dull clunking noise as he sets me down on the plastic crate he uses as a bedside table. He tugs off his pair of black-framed glasses and places them beside me on the makeshift nightstand.

"Busy day, eh?" My Mark's glasses ask with a tired tone lacing her voice. This is something I have always found rather interesting; my Mark's glasses are actually unisex, meaning that either sex can wear them. However, after the first day of being pressed against my eyepiece it was well established that they definitely leaned more towards the feminine spectrum of the unisex category. She would go on and on about all the lovely boys my Mark should be going after instead of that crazy and far too female, Maureen. I was quite thankful for this turn of events because there would be no sexual tension between us while my Mark filmed since I am solely attracted to other inanimate objects of the masculine persuasion, like Roger's tough acoustic guitar.

"Definitely," I replied with a stifled snicker. It was hard not to think of what dirty little deed had just transpired between my Mark and his Roger only a few moments ago when there are still a few wayward droplets of condensation on the lenses of my Mark's glasses.

"It was _well _worth it, thought," a dirty grin. "And I have to say, I quite enjoyed the view," though it was quite obvious in her voice, I could just picture her winking had she proper eyes. "I'm guessing you and Roger's acoustic did too?" Another would-be blush on my behalf. That strange piece of framework knows far too much for her own good sometimes. "Don't worry, I approve of him," she pauses, glancing around the room before continuing in a lower tone. "Much better than that striped nympho." The hairline crack in my lens splits the fraction of an inch wider. Blinded by love? Apparently everyone saw it but me, that is until now. "Goodnight," she whispers as my Mark picks her up and folds her neatly, that always puts her right to sleep.

My Mark begins whispering excitedly to me, recapping the events of the entire day but emphasizing his own personal views on what he saw and filmed. Unwound and placed neatly on the old dresser the two boys had found in a back alley one year, my Beloved watches as my Mark speaks to me. I just know that this little 'conversation' will only piss him off even more.

"I wish I could explain it better, but that's part of the beauty of Roger," my Mark pauses as another goofy grin, the one I am really starting to adore, flits over his face. "For the longest time I was still hung up on Maureen…but then last month and yesterday," he trails off and I wish I could zoom in closer on his face, but he would notice the odd jump in perspective when he reviews this particular reel of film. "And tonight at the Pyramid." A breathy sigh that makes my film skip a few single frames. My Mark's eyes wonder away from my lens, not focusing on anything in particular as his mind pulls up memories from his Roger's performance tonight at the club. "I've never seen him play like that, especially for a pretty big audience." I can tell there are so many things that my Mark is trying to say that he just can't find the right combination of words to express himself.

"Don't worry, Mark, I understand completely," I reply even though I know it's pointless since he'll never hear me, but it makes me feel, I don't know, actually alive. Of all the times I've tried to talk back to him I wish he could hear me now. Wish my Mark new he is not alone. He lets out a nervous laugh, realizing his Roger has in fact rendered him speechless. We hear a dull sputtering sound coming from down the hall where the bathroom is located, old pipes rattling in protest to the water pressure, and then the running water is shut off.

"I guess that's it for today." My Mark whispers with a short wave before shutting me off with a gentle flick of his wrist. I feel his fingers wrap around my body and he is picking me up. There's a gentle padding noise of bare feet against the exposed floorboards. Suddenly I'm being incased in soft white and blue fabric. My mechanical body is wrapped up, leaving only my lens exposed as my Mark fiddles with the material. It's a very familiar sensation, and yet now it feels disgusting, sickening.

"Mark," Roger says in a quiet voice as I watch him move from where he had been leaning against the doorframe. Dressed in the ever-popular pajama combo of sweatpants and a white beater, I pause to wonder for a moment where my Beloved's little buddy the Plaid Pants have wondered off. He crosses the small bedroom to stand behind my Mark. Roger's long, musician fingers slip through the belt loops on my Mark's loose pants. Large hands gripping thin hips as Roger presses his face into the crook of my Mark's neck. The air of intimacy between the two men is enough to make me would-be blush. I can see his chapped lips pressing gently against my Mark who simply smiles in response to the affectionate display from his usually brooding roommate.

I wish his acoustic guitar had a real mouth to kiss me with.

"Mark, what are you doing?" He inquires, pulling his face away from the pale skin of my Mark's throat and turning his attention towards my Beloved and me. One of those large hands pulls away from my Mark and tugs at my Beloved, almost undoing all of my Mark's hard work; for the first time I want him to.

"Please, Roger!" I yelp again in vain, hoping somehow he'll understand me and pull the scarf off of me. The fabric tightens around me in protest, clinging to the cool metal of my body.

"Wrapping my camera up to protect it," my Mark replies calmly as gently pushes his Roger's hand away. Taking the piece of material from between Roger's fingers, my Mark tucks the corner of my Beloved around the bottom half of my lens. My vision is obscured and all I can see is my Mark turning his face to press a short kiss against his Roger's rough cheek. "Hopefully," my Mark sighs, "Nothing strange will happen like last night." Roger's coarse laugh is all I can hear as my Mark finishes 'protecting' me. There's a moment of silence as I'm incased in darkness, all white and blue fibers suffocating me until I nearly blackout.

"It's cold," Roger whispers in the darkness, and it's all I can focus on to keep from falling into the softness of my Beloved. Think about Roger's voice, Roger's low, crooning voice singing alongside his beautiful guitar. "Come to bed." I shiver, screws rattling and film jamming.

"In a sec," my Mark replies distractedly as he carefully places me back down on the hard surface of the dresser. "Hey, Roger, tomorrow do you want to watch what I got on film tonight?" I feel my entire being light up with that proposition. One of the most pleasurable things in my life has got to be when my Mark extracts my film, usually replacing it with a new reel, and then watches it with me beside him. Oh, and a chance to see the performance all over again, this time my Mark and mine's version.

Maybe Roger will be tinkering with his acoustic tomorrow while we watch…I mentally cross my fingers.

"Loved to, but now is bedtime, Pookie," he says with a grin obviously curving his words. I hear the distinct sound of my Mark's arm colliding with Roger's chest as Roger drags my Mark away from the dresser. Then there's the telltale sound of lips moving against skin followed closely by the quite creak of bedsprings. The kisses continue for a short time before I hear my Mark sigh contentedly. After a few minutes of rustling bed sheets wrapping themselves around my Mark and his Roger I hear two distinct breathing patterns level out as both men fall asleep.

"Hello, Darling," sweet and low, right into my mic. The soft fabric of my Beloved wraps tight around my body, pulling at the dulled edges and trying his best to be seductive and far too brazen. He should know by now wanton is not my type. I like soul, depth, melody, syncopation and hardwood.

Ignore him.

Find away out.

I have to get out. Now.

I try in vain to somehow wiggle out of the damned Gordian Knot my Mark has made out of my Beloved. He even tied the tassels to one another in some strange attempt to protect me from whatever he thinks happened last night.

"We're even," he whispers with a smug grin in his voice.

"What?" I want to scream in frustration but I think of my Mark and bite back the urge and reply calmly. My mind, however, spins, 16mm film pulled taught and threatening to snap in pure shock.

"Darling," he mocks me with an old 'sweet nothing.' "You had your little," I can hear the condescending tone lacing his voice as he pretends to be searching for a euphemism. "'Slip up' with that silly old guitar and well, you saw me with the Plaid Pants." "We're even, and I'll find it somewhere in my heart to forgive you."

"We're not even, my _Beloved_," I spit the endearment like venom. How I wish my Mark had listened to me _and_ his glasses when we told him to do this to Maureen the first time she flirted with some waitress right in front of all of us. Well, I've learned from his mistakes. My Mark is much happier now with his Roger than he ever was with Maureen so I think I'll be okay.

I know I will.

"We're over."

* * *

After nearly a half hour of attempting to set up the white bed sheet, myself and Roger's acoustic guitar directing the sheet to give the two boys a hard time, both of us taking great pleasure each time the broke out laughing and fell into one another's arms, my Mark and his Roger finally had a screen set up.

Switching the projector on, my Mark settles back down on the duct-tapped couch next to his Roger. Lucky little camera that I am, I'm currently snuggled beside the acoustic guitar. For some reason my Mark's Roger, bless his AIDS ridden lithe body, had decided that it would be fun to put me right under the long neck of his guitar so that neither of us would be 'lonely' without our respective owners. His precise words being, "they'll be so lonely without us holding them all day while we watch the film, we should at least put them together."

My Mark has wonderful taste in men, if I do say so myself.

The first scene rolls onto the screen, the old projector sputtering to life as my film whips through its larger mechanical body, very similar to mine. Projected several times its normal size, is a shot from the early morning, a few minutes after my Mark put me back together. The image is of Roger tuning up the acoustic guitar, tightening the cords that I helped to loosen the night before. I feel the slightest nudge against my body and I know the guitar would-be smiling, just as I would-be too, if we could.

I look over at him, snuggling closer under his neck.

Out of the corner of my lens I see Roger with his head resting on my Mark's shoulder. Resting on my Mark's knee is the two boys' interlocked hands. Roger's beautiful silver ring, who I have on good authority has quite the infatuation with my Mark's glasses, go figure, is sliding over the back of my Mark's hand as Roger caresses his pale skin. My heart, if I had one, would be swelling to a bursting point.

Roger turns his face, pressing his lips against my Mark's neck again. Unlike last night, this time he runs into the inevitable barrier of my ex-Beloved. He pulls away with a twisted grin on his lips. That boy's deranged mind is thinking of something. I watch with bated breath as his hand unwind from my Mark's, my Mark of course being totally oblivious as he has been sucked into the film. Roger's hand travels up my Mark's arm and grasps the fringed edge of the scarf and pulls.

I watch, zooming out so that I can catch the entire arch of the motion in my lens, as Roger yanks my ex-Beloved off of my Mark's neck and tosses it across halfway across the loft.

I love that boy.

My Mark yelps in surprise as a rush of cold air touches the usually protected skin of his throat. However, the sound dissolves into a gasp as I see Roger trail a few open mouth kisses along the side of my Mark's neck.

My ex-Beloved lands in the pile of dirty clothing the boys are going to take to wash at the nearby Laundromat this afternoon. Right on top of.

The.

Fucking.

Plaid Pants.

* * *

**AN**:…hate it? Like it? Want more? Want to know where I get my crack? Want more characters? Hable! 


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Mark's Glasses/Roger's Man-Ring, Mark's Camera/Mark's Scarf, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** When Roger and Mark get a little preoccupied with each other their 'accessories' also get better acquainted.

**Rating: **Chapter FourR

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN**: Not quite sure what inanimate object 'dirty talk' sounds like…but I'll try. Washing Machines Tacky Vibrating Beds. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Four**

Oh. My. God.

My Mark is filming soft-core porn!

That is the first thought that came to me as soon as my Mark pulled off the strange lens cap that he had decided to use, for the first time in his life, because of the tiny fracture in my lens. Swirling colors, all blue, white and red plaid blurring together in an orgy of laundry detergent and water. The clothing is all tumbled together into one mass, but the only thing that I see is the twisted, watered-down image of my ex-Beloved rolled up inside the right pant leg of the Plaid Pants, the tassels dangling outside the cuff. All I can focus on is the convex glass portal to an all encompassing Hell that my Mark has decided to film for some abstract, artsy reason I can't remember, being a little too shocked out of my mind for a coherent thought.

It would be hypnotizing if it weren't so nauseating.

"Make it stop, make it stop, _please_ Mark!" I try to plead with my Mark, jerking and writhing restlessly in his hands. His grip tightens as he mumbles something to himself about my odd behavior, dismissing it as a mechanical malfunction he'll have to look into later. I need to control myself. I swallow my anger, allowing my self one last whimper of "Mark" as he zooms in on the glass door of the washing machine. They really need to stop making these horribly sleazy washing machines with their insides showing for the entire world to see, especially on the ones that you pay for in quarters. I mean, how cheap and tacky can you get? At least there are no romantic pretenses to it I guess, just down and dirty to get 'clean,' as my Mark apparently thinks washing his cloths, mingling with his Roger's mind you, will do. My silent soliloquy is unfortunately interrupted by a loud clanking noise, sounding something like metal colliding with metal.

"This should be enough for the dryer, right?" My Mark's Roger. The entire scene shifts, swinging upwards, zooming out as my Mark turns me to where the musician has dumped a fistful of quarters onto the top of the washing machine. Slung over Roger's shoulder is the worn strap connected to the acoustic guitar.

"Thank you," I whisper relieved.

"No problem." The same singsong voice replies, though sounding a little distance since he is pressed against Roger's back, facing the opposite direction.

"Hey," I reply quietly. I can't help but think of my Mark's bright smile from this early morning when he woke up next to _his_ Roger for the first time, my sweet Mark sitting in bed for a quarter of an hour, watching the sun caress the planes of his Roger's sleeping face. I look at Roger more closely, beginning to wonder why he would have brought his acoustic guitar with him. It's obvious why my Mark brought me, seeing as how I am almost physically a part of him, but Roger usually only brings his guitar outside the loft for gigs at local nightclubs.

Bending his long legs at the knee, Roger easily hops up onto the washing machine, shifting the guitar around so it now is lying in his lap. Callused fingertips slide idly up and down the metal cords strung along the neck of the guitar. I wince as a torrent of jealousy flares up. Shifting my gaze away from the acoustic I glance up at Roger. The tip of Roger's nose, along with his cheeks are flushed a delicate pink that reminds me of my Mark whenever he is out in the cold too long with me. He must have been outside playing for quarters to pay for this trip to the Laundromat.

"You okay? It's pretty cold out there," I asked, genuinely concerned, the cold perhaps warping the already worn and slightly abused, or 'loved' as I would like to think of it, wooden body of the guitar.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The acoustic replies as Roger slips the strap off his shoulder and sets the acoustic on another dormant washing machine next to his thigh. Something in his demeanor changes as I feel him look at me more closely; looking through my lens like Roger does when my Mark is filming him. I suddenly realize what my Mark always gets flustered whenever his Roger does that; it's rather intimidating to be flattened with one glance from another person, or object in my case. There is a long pause before he speaks again, carefully choosing his words. "I'm sorry you had to watch that, you know Mark's just being 'artsy' or something." I find myself lost in the warm tones of his voice; alternating like a slow rhythm encircling my mechanical body with a sweet embrace his nonexistent arms could never do justice to. It's ridiculously sweet the way he is trying to comfort me. I can't even remember one time when my ex-Beloved, no, my Mark's scarf, tried to comfort me when I was feeling down.

"Yeah," I answer back in a short monotone voice, unsure how to react to this sudden flood of warmth that the acoustic has sent coursing through me, he cares about _me_. In the background I hear the quiet buzzing of my Mark and Roger as they have some inane little conversation about the odd scent of the laundry detergent they chose from the cheap vending machine.

"Hey, come on," the acoustic tries again. I hear an odd note in his voice that tugs my attention back to him a hundred percent. "I know how I can make all better," there is a definite sexual undertone to his voice that I can't help but pick upon. Oh, he certainly has learned quite a lot from his Roger. Especially that little purr that Roger does when he wants something he knows he should not have. I know this because my Mark has a slight obsession with that sound, imitating it as best he can whenever he jerks off to the thought of Roger. Though I guess he won't need to do that much any more, at least not without the real thing mewling for him.

"Really?" The fresh film inside my body reels as I reply with the same flirtatious and playful inflections lacing my voice.  
"Mmmhmm," he hums with that sweet purr in his voice, a low note resonating deep inside his wooden carved body. I can almost feel the vibrations coursing through my sprockets. "Tonight," the acoustic begins murmuring as my film starts to speed up, almost doubling over. "After the two Boho boys are fast asleep," my loose screws are nearly rattling as I tremble in my Mark's steady hands. "In the dark loft, you all bathed in pale moonlight and flickering candles," His grip tightens as I strain to hear the final notes of the acoustics 'love-song.' "I'm gonna turn your crank, tweak your loose little screws _so_ fucking hard that you won't be able to film straight for a week. My whole body covered in a thin sheen of freshly spilt film."

"Woah," my Mark gasps holding me together with his hands as I nearly spring open right there in the Laundromat.

A loud click draws the attention away from me.

"Ooo, Mark, spin cycle!" Roger yelps ecstatically, his voice distorted as the vibrations rattle his lithe body. Pulling myself together I look up at Roger, away from the acoustic guitar who most certainly has nearly snapped a G string. There is an odd glint in Roger's eye that sends a chill through me. "Hey, Marky, you know what would be _fun_?" I can hear the obvious teasing voice that Roger uses with my Mark from time to time when he wants to get a particularly physical reaction from my normally calm filmmaker. My Mark stands up as Roger slips off the washing machine in a slow, strangely seductive motion. He quickly glances around the nearly empty Laundromat, eyes passing over the only other person, a woman sitting alone mumbling to herself about an annoyingly resilient stain. I watch as Roger turns his back to my Mark, bending himself over the public appliance, pressing his palms flat against the top of the rumbling washing machine. "To fuck on a washing machine while it's on," he asks glancing over his shoulder at my Mark with a feral grin, wiggling his hips enticingly.

"Behave." My Mark's chides, though a grin is in his voice as his arm lightly hits his Roger's side before he leans up for a quick kiss.

* * *

A soft, incessant jiggling sensation travels throughout my entire body, pulling me out of the early evening nap my Mark and I had fallen into on the old couch. Resting on the slight incurve of my Mark's stomach, my lens is almost pressed against the material of his sweet natured and strangely asexual sweater. I feel the soft rhythm of my Mark's breathing become shallower. He's waking up. It takes a few moments for me to focus, zooming in and out several times until the image of skin and worn denim material comes into view, nice and crisp and clear. However, the only thing I can see is a rather large bulge of my Mark's blue jeans. 

That's odd.

What part of my Mark's body would be that swollen? He didn't get hit in the leg recently, did he?

"Mark," my Mark's name is a low moan in the back of Roger's throat. I would-be blush hearing the lust thick in Roger's voice. Two large hands, one finger bearing a silver ring that I know for a fact belongs to Roger, slip up over the bulge, pressing hard against the skin beneath. Fingertips trail over the rigid arch, a large amount of the jean material moves out of my sight as Mark's legs fall open. Suddenly I see Roger's mischievous face grinning at my Mark and me.

"Woah!" I yelp in surprise, jumping back slightly, finally putting two and two together. "Umm, hello, Roger." I mumble rhetorically as Roger continues to feel up my Mark's erection through his jeans. I try to zoom out as best I can and I notice the acoustic's strap digging into Roger's shoulder. "Acoustic…?"

"Mark," Roger whispers again, his lips parted as a tongue slips out to wet his lips as he moves closer to my Mark.

"Yeah?" His voice is muffled.

"What is Roger doing? I mean I know _what _he's doing but," I pause glancing down at Roger's busy hands slowly unzipping the metallic fly of my Mark's blue jeans. "Why?" My voice squeaked out the word.

"You'll see in a second," he whispers with a grin like the one Roger is wearing on his face.

"Mmm, Rog, feel sooooo good," my Mark's voice is thick with lust and sleep. I can tell he is still not yet actually awake. My little body shifts, falling of onto the side as he hips move up towards Roger's hand, needing more contact in order to get off. His breathing is erratic, hips moving against Roger. "W-wha-" My Mark stutters before my world is thrown for a loop as my Mark nearly falls off the couch. "Jesus, Roger!"

"Which one?" Roger's asks suddenly pulling away from my Mark, acting nonchalant, as if he had not just had his hands down my Mark's pants. He's turns around quickly, grabbing the Fender and holding it in one hand as he shifts the strap around his shoulders to display the acoustic. "Acoustic or the Fender?"

"W-what, why?" My Mark asks, still in a confused haze as he sits up on the sofa while zipping up his jeans.

"Because," he draws out the word as he leans back in towards my Mark. "My little indie filmmaker," an odd endearment that distracts my Mark as I feel Roger grab me. I feel my lens nearly crack wide open as callused fingers grip my sides, spinning me around so I'm facing my Mark. It's a very rare thing indeed when I get to catch my Mark on film when someone else is behind my eyepiece, especially Roger. Though I don't feel a hundred percent safe in the musician's hands I remember that he is the one who handles the acoustic as if it were his first-born and I relax, well, slightly. "You are looking at the new permanent opening act at the Pyramid club on Friday nights."

"Really?" My Mark asks with a half grin pulling at his lips.  
"Really," Roger confirms. My Mark is beside himself, looking up at Roger with the sweetest smile I have ever seen. While Roger is babbling on I watch my Mark stand up, moving off the couch so that he comes toe to toe with his Roger. "The club's manager called while you were asle-" I giggle as my Mark cuts him off with a sweet, slow kiss that leaves the Pretty Boy Rock Star Roger Davis breathless.

You drop me, Roger, and I swear!

"Definitely the acoustic." My Mark murmurs against Roger's lips as he pulls away with a smile.

I couldn't agree more.

* * *

From where my Mark placed me on the old dresser, thankfully this time without my ex-Beloved wrapped around me, I can just barley make out the curving line of Roger's back as he sits on the edge of the spring mattress. He's faced away from me, towards my Mark's prone figure, and is talking in a low whisper. I think I hear something about his show next Friday, needing my Mark to be his steadfast groupie or at least something to that effect. Roger's slumped form becomes smaller as he dips down to place a slow kiss against my Mark's lips. 

I sigh softly. No matter how much I love watching these two, and it would be even better to film them, part of me is wishing that I were still on the old, duct tape couch next to the acoustic guitar.

However, my attention is drawn back to inside my Mark's bedroom when I see Roger move again. He turns towards the small bedside table where my Mark normally places his glasses before going to bed. Roger does something with his hands; I guess that he is removing the band of silver from his long forefinger, before reaching over to pick something off the table. Despite the fact it's dark in the room I still try to zoom in on his fingers to get a better look at what that strange boy is doing. I managed to focus my lens in time to see Roger slip the ring onto one of the dark frame's thin wire earpieces.

At least someone is together tonight besides my Mark and his Rock Star Wonder Boy, Roger.

Watching Roger snuggle into the blankets behind my Mark, no doubt wrapping his arm around my Mark's little waist, I hear a low grumbling filtering through the paper-thin walls. Scooting backwards as quietly as I can manage, thankfully the two lovebirds are so wrapped up in each other they would not hear me even if I fell off the dresser, I press myself against the wall. A beautiful singsong patter of mumbles is all I can hear, a would-be lopsided grin, the acoustic guitar. However, I hear a distinctly different voice joining the simplistic melody of the acoustic. The odd sound is followed by a low sound of scrapping against the panels of the loft's hardwood floor. I strain to make out what the other voice is saying.

"We need to talk, now," the unplugged twang of the Fender.

* * *

**AN**: Ominous music! So I recently found out about an RP that I guess I have inspired called rentobjects and I was reading one of rabidfangirlism's entries where the gals who RP were talking about making the objects into humans. Soooo, I tried to draw our favorite couple as human beings: (http) (:) (/) (/) (img.) (photobucket.) (com/) (albums/) (v449/) (bluetears07/) (MCRAG.jpg) Tell me what you think. :D 


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Roger's Fender Stratocaster/Roger's Amp, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** In which the Fender is an ass.

**Rating: **Chapter FiveR

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN**: Bi-inanimateality is not a real word, own invention meaning that an inanimate has 'sexual' feelings towards both inanimate objects and clothing. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. A plot? No…Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Five**

If asked, he would deny it up and down, eight ways to fucking Sunday. But, I know deep inside his golden heart, the acoustic looks up to the Fender in some fucked up form of idolatry.

He'll listen to him.

It makes me inexplicably nervous.

"There are certain rules for these types of…less than platonic 'interactions' I've been seein' you engage in most recently." I shiver as an odd chill courses through my sprockets while I press my little body closer to the paper-thin wall. The unplugged twang of the Fender whispering in a harsh voice. Unlike the acoustic's beautiful singsong voice, there is something raw and unconnected that contours his words, drawing them out so they permanently sound infused with lust. It always makes me feel dirty. If I had skin like my Mark, trust me, it would be crawling.

"What are you talking about, Strat?" The acoustic's voice is slightly muffled but I would know it anywhere. An odd resigned note of apathy hangs in the air just beyond the wall I'm currently pressed against. A part of my insides contracts, winding my film tight as I focus on the Fender's reply.

"Don't you know anything about inanimate object relationships?" Ever since day one, when my Mark and I moved into the loft and meet Roger and his Fender Stratocaster, that damned guitar has, and probably forever will be, a condescending prick. I really do not understand him, nor do I really want to take the time to.

Maybe he was just built that way.

The only thing that is unsettling is this social order that the Fender is talking to the acoustic about. Yeah, I've heard of it before but what is the matter with what the acoustic and I have going on? We're both consenting objects, unless that asshole is super conservative, which would be completely counterintuitive. But then again he's a total drama queen, anything to create conflict that will keep him amused so he doesn't have to think about al the times Roger has passed him up for the acoustic.

"I mean," the Fender starts speaking again in a low humming drawl. An air of disappointment and blatant patronization fills his voice. "Since when do you fuck around with _Mark's_ little camera?"

Fucking.

Bitch.

I can feel something inside my body snap as a tiny bubble of rage unlike anything I've ever felt before bursts.

"What?" That same anger is mirrored in the sound of the acoustic, loud and clear, a dangerously low note of warning. I hear the muffled sound of carved wood scraping against the floor.

That's right, Acoustic, defend my fucking honor!

"It goes object-object and clothing-clothing." Only from hearing his callous voice, the Fender sounds beyond offended and disgusted. I have never heard him sound like this before in my life. His usually fluid speech pattern has dissolved into a series of abrupt, staccato words. There must be another dimension to this all, something more, something personal. The Fender can barely contain his emotions, as it is, now their bubbling over and spewing all over the nearest object.

My Beautiful Acoustic.

"But Mark's camera _is_ an object." A brilliant counter.

"That fucked up _bi-inanmateual_ is one of _Mark's _objects, not Roger's."

"Hey, fuck you!" I yell in a whisper, knocking my body against the wall in vain. In the social world I may be a little naïve I am conscious enough to know that being called a bi-inanmateual is definitely not something you want to be labeled as, even if it is what you are. I just want to be with my Beautiful Acoustic. I ignoring the tell-tale sound of old rotted wood grating against wood as the top drawer of the dresser slides open and the Plaid Pants and my ex-Beloved stop screwing around long enough to listen to what is transpiring in the other room.

"Cross-personal object 'relationships' are…are," he's tripping over his own words, so revolted by the idea he can barely find the right expression to convey his emotions. There is the sound of more scrapping, though this time it is the sound of a hard molded body of the Fender. "It's disgusting and just fucked up."

Pushed too far.

An odd popping noise cracks through the charged air, sounding for all the world like a snapped guitar string. There is a long pause of uneasy silence.

I almost snap.

Is he okay?

"What about the Plaid Pants?" He is slow to speak, his voice distorted. Something in the way his voice sounds almost nervous, a trembling harmony that is not quite in sync, missing something vital. No longer a perfect full set of beautifully taut cords strung up the long handcrafted wooden neck. "They, they're with Mark's scarf…" He trails off at a loss for what to say in defense.

"Well, since our dear Roger has temporarily lost his fucking mind and is now getting head from that _Mark_," he spits my sweet Mark's name out like he is nothing. Obviously he's something to your fucking Roger! "They mix their laundry together. Clothing doesn't really have a choice, now do they?"

"Dude, what did he just say about us?" Suddenly the Plaid Pants have decided now is as good a time as ever to startle me half to death. I jump away from the wall and nearly fall of the dresser upon hearing the outburst.

"Plaid, darling, shhh," my ex-Beloved hushes him quietly as I steady myself and look behind me at the two articles of clothing peering over the lip of the dresser at me. I can't stifle the venomous glare I shoot at the Plaid Pants.

"Ohh, shut up."

"Sorry dude," he backs off as I notice my Mark's scarf slip through a few of his belt loops, encircling him in a warm embrace.

"Seriously, man, you need to find something else." The Fender's voice cuts through the air again. I press myself back up against the wall, straining to hear every word the acoustic has to say in response.

"What about you? Who do you have?" Same old tactic I tried on him a few nights ago before my world was turned on it ear.  
"Me?" There's an oddly amused tone in his voice, almost sounding like a crazy grin that Roger gets whenever he is about to pounce on my poor oblivious Mark. "I've got my little lady right here." A high-pitched giggle is the only sound that follows his haughty statement. "Well, ain't that right, babe," he coos disgustingly and I can only assume he is speaking about that slut of an amplifier that Roger jacked from some seeding nightclub that was going out of business.

Now if you want to talk about nymphomaniacs, I bet that my ex-Beloved and that amp would be just a winning pair. However, they'd probably be too busy screwing around and cheating on each other that they would never actually fuck. Oh, oh wait, my bad, that would be in total violation of the fucking rules that prick in there just drew out for all of inanimate objects in the loft.

"You understand now, Acoustic?" He pauses long enough so that a flat note of agreement echoes inside the loft. When I hear the twang again is a sickeningly playful tone, with a menacing undercurrent that gives a real weight to his words. "Next time I catch you with that fucking camera I'll snap more than just one of your cords, and definitely not in the way you would prefer him to do."

"Fucking Fender, piece of shit," I begin to mumble, winding myself up probably more than is healthy. I know my film will be in tatters tomorrow morning when my Mark goes to put a new reel in.

"Calm down dude, that ain't gonna help anything," the Plaid Pants attempt to be the voice of freedom but something in that all-too-relaxed drawl makes me snap.

"Shut up, Pants!"

Fuck the Fender.

* * *

That following day is probably one of the most awkward times of my life to date.

For starters, the first thing I hear is a string of mumbled curses issuing from a very agitated Roger as he stumbles back inside the bedroom cradling our wounded Beautiful Acoustic. A shock of anger rips through me again and I know for sure that my Mark is definitely going to be upset when he sees the state of all the film he shot yesterday is in this morning. Bleached hair mused and sticking out in odd angles that would have been comical if not for entirely defeated look of misery carved on his tired face.

He looks old, too old.

Roger pads quietly over to the dresser he pauses, glancing back at my Mark who is still asleep laying spread eagle on the twisted bed sheets. I watch his hand press down against the dresser, beginning to slide across to clear a spot for his guitar. He pauses as a few pennies and wayward buttons go flying across the room, his fingertips grazing my side. A small smile pulls at his lips as he picks me up. Cradled in the crook of his arm, probably mimicking the way he has see my Mark hold me, Roger places the acoustic on the flat surface. He puts be back down on the dresser, tucked neatly out of the way, protected on nearly all sides by the curve of the guitar's warm wooden body.

The entire dresser shakes as Roger unceremoniously yanks open the second drawer and begins rummaging around for a package of guitar strings that he apparently bought last week and stuffed in my Mark's dresser drawer so he would not loose them in the black hole of his own room, or so he keeps muttering to himself. A few old tattered sweaters my Mark never wears anymore, go flying over his shoulder and into a heap on the foot of the bed where my Mark is beginning to stir. Roger's entire face lights up as he finds the strings and attempts to rips open the cheap plastic. While Roger is distracted with figuring out how best to attack the packaging I press myself against the acoustic and am surprised when he shifts closer, hopefully taking solace in my presence.

"What happened?" I ask already knowing the answer, both the truth and what his typical, by-the-book-Roger response will be. A part of him shrinks away from me and all I can focus on is the flat tone of his voice.

He's incomplete.

I was not there to keep him together when he needed me most.

"Nothing…" the acoustic murmurs with a quiet sigh. In the background I hear Roger yelp in surprise as he finally tears open the package and the set of strings go flying on to the dresser. Poor Roger is frantic. Hands moving sporadically all around us as Roger desperately searches for the one he needs to fix his guitar, I try to focus on what the acoustic is saying to me. "Don't worry about me," he adds in a soothing tone as Roger begins to untie his broken string.

"Listen, Acoustic, las-" I'm cut off as I hear the sounds of sheets rustling and bare feet treading softly against the floorboards. My attention is immediately drawing to the image of my Mark, wrapped up in a bed sheet. He walks quietly over to where his Roger, the acoustic and myself are situated. Silently, my Mark slips his arms around his Roger's chest, lacing his fingers together. I can tell by the way his Roger slumps forward slightly he's pressing himself against the musician. Just over Roger's shoulder are a few wayward tips of brilliant blond hair as my Mark presses his face against the bare flesh of his Roger's shoulder blade. Something in Roger's domineer changes from frantic and unbelievably agitated to a fluid calm. His long fingers stop trembling and he strings the new cord flawlessly along the acoustics neck.

No words are exchanged between the two.

I hear the soft press of lips against bare skin as my Mark plants a kiss on the middle of his Roger's back. The odd tilt to Roger's body disappears as he relaxes back against my Mark, once again having to get used to the tactile warmth of another person. This time however, it's the touch of someone who will always be there. A content sigh slips from Roger as he tunes the brand-new string, satisfied with the sound. My Mark's hands unfold and slip from his Roger's chest, trailing down his arms before moving away completely. Without a word he heads towards the doorway, pauses for a moment and glances back over his shoulder to where Roger is neatly folding his old sweaters.

"Roger," he murmurs in an amused tone that sets a subdued flush creeping up the back of his Roger's neck. The musician drops the last article of clothing into the drawer, closes it and is across the room in a heartbeat with his arms wrapped around my Mark's shoulders. I strain to see the two take off down the short hallway in the direction of the bathroom.

"Last nig-" I try to begin against as the squeaking of old water pipes fades into the dull hum of the sleepless city.

"Can I just hold you for a little while?" For a moment I cannot register his words. I don't even know the last time someone, let along my ex-Beloved wanted to just hold me in silence. My heart, if I had one, would sweat to twice its size and nearly burst out of my little body. Such a sweet simple request, I cannot deny him, that is, if I could deny him anything at all. But there is a strange undercurrent, an odd tone of finality to his voice that makes me shiver.

"Of course," I murmur. Some intangible yet entirely too palpable force wraps around my body and I feel myself drawn closer towards the acoustic guitar. Pressed against the warm wood of his body I feel whole. I can't explain it, how that beautiful guitar is doing it but I feel fingertips and warm hands like Roger's long tapered fingers wrapping around my body. I whisper his name and snuggle closer to his curved body, blocking out all images and sounds of the previous night.

I could swear I felt a pair of soft, thin lips press against the side of my body.

Actually I take back what I said before; the morning was beautifully bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter. However, the afternoon was bad, very bad.

The rest of the day the acoustic made no attempt to even acknowledge my presence or even the fact that I existed, at least when we were in the immediate presence of the Fender. However, being in the living room for the entire afternoon meant we were always in earshot of the Fender. He pretty much kept to himself while my Mark had taken to cleaning my lens and sporadically filming Roger doing random things.

I didn't really start hurting until Roger decided to begin plucking out a few notes.

Something was still off in his harmony, a strange imbalance that Roger was immediately aware off. However, the poor boy thought was his fault, that he was somehow causing the odd sound. He started humming a few of the notes to himself, filling in every other with the words of the song, "No one knows what it's like…" Pausing, he tried to play the same notes on the guitar. It sounded all wrong. The Fender, not really attuned to the subtlety of the acoustic guitar's voice when Roger played him, the Fender being used to the sound of chords warped and twisted by an amp and electricity could not hear what I heard in the Beautiful Acoustic's voice. "To be the sad man, behind blue eyes," only I could hear the muted love and longing and pain.

Everything came to a grinding halt as the phone rang. The sound of my Mark and his Roger's answering machine echoed throughout the loft as Roger stopped playing and my Mark turned his attention, along with me, towards the phone.

"Pookie? Baby, it's Maureen, please pick up the phone. Joanne and I wer-" A part of me wanted to break into peels of laughter as my Mark bolted from where he sat on the table across from his Roger to answer the phone.

"Hey Maureen," he mumbled in an odd semblance of cheerfulness. Maureen's chipper voice sped a mile a minute from the receiver. "Uh, let me ask Roger." My Mark said suddenly as he covered the phone with one hand and held it away from his mouth to ask his Roger a question.

"You want free dinner?" My Mark gave his Roger a goofy grin that made me glance at the acoustic. Roger placed the temperamental guitar on the couch cushion beside him. I'm not sure if my Mark picked up on the odd look Roger gave the acoustic guitar as he stood up from the couch to come stand beside my Mark, wrapping his arms around my Mark's slim hips.

"Catch?" Roger asked, with a mischievous grin though he knew the answer.  
"Maureen and Joanne's place."

"I accept the challenge." Roger finally replied after silently deliberating for a good two minutes.

* * *

I was all alone on this journey.

My Mark had decided, at the last moment of course, that it would be fun to bring me along for dinner. Maybe get some interesting shots of the nicer part of the city where Joanne lived. He also just wanted to get some shots of Joanne's apartment, maybe use the stock images later for something to contrast with his and Roger's loft. More wonderful reappearing dichotomies that I had began to pick up all throughout my Mark's cinematic work.

Thus, I found myself pressed tight against my Mark's chest, angled in such away that I could see his Roger's thin frame walking close beside him. As the two boys stood outside the apartment waiting for Joanne or Maureen to answer the door, I felt Roger's solid warmth fade away for the first time since leaving the loft a good half hour ago. Zooming out I caught the shifting of stiff leather as his hand moved from the small of my Mark's back where it had been content to stay during the entire trip over here.

Roger took a step away from my Mark.

The two boys were separate and isolated when Maureen finally opened the door.

* * *

**AN**: What do you think? Now, my Fender is a whole world different from the Fender portrayed by the sweet gals over at the rentobject community, it's totally not meant as a slam, it's just how I imagined him before ya'll started RP-ing. But don't worry there is more to him than meets the 'eye.' :D 


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Roger's Fender Stratocaster/Roger's Amp, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** Party and Joanne's apartment!

**Rating: **Chapter Six: R

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN**: Angry!smex is always fun. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Six**

First and foremost, I just love Joanne.

I mean really, you've just got to love her. What a class act that woman is, especially the way she knows how to handle Maureen. Being able to save my Mark from the death grip of her crazy girlfriend, bravo. I doubt that anyone other than Joanne could have pried Maureen's fingers from around my poor, stunned Mark. And of course I've got to hand it to someone who is able to save me from gaping maw of unequivocal torture, being squashed by those disgusting mounds of flesh Maureen always presses against my Mark's chest, though I'm normally used as a shield. But, in that particular situation, I can't hold that against him.

"Oh Pookie," Maureen coos with a teasing smile and that singsong voice. I can remember a time when Maureen would use that same sweet voice on my star-crossed Mark and get away with anything and everything. It still makes me cringe whenever I hear it even though I have grown to like Maureen a whole lot more now that she and Joanne are together. "I was just greeting them." She slips her arms around Joanne's waist before pressing a dainty, playful kiss against her cheek. All I can think about in that moment is the image of my ex-Beloved.

"Which explains why you didn't give Roger a bear hug," Joanne inquires with a flat tone as she pulls Maureen's arms from around her waist. An awkward pause hangs in the air as both Maureen and Joanne have a silent test of wills, staring at each other. Well, more like Maureen giving her girlfriend the most heart wrenching pair of big doe eyes that would have even worked on me the day after she broke my Mark's heart. I can see Joanne's resolve crumbling piece by piece as she tries her best to resist Maureen. However, my attention is immediately drawn towards the drama occurring behind me as I feel my Mark shift nervously. He moves his arms so that I'm now press flat against his stomach, facing Roger. I can tell that he is staring at Roger, whom I can see is looking pretty much everywhere but my Mark.

The musician's hands are stuffed deep inside the pockets of his leather coat.

My Mark's body flinches as he restrains himself from taking a step closer to his Roger.

I can feel my body be clutched tighter and tighter by my Mark's pale fingers, pressing closer against his stomach as he tries in vain to get Roger's attention. My would-be heart feels like its breaking as I hear my Mark's faint voice call to his Roger. He's so quiet that I'm the only one who can hear him.

His voice cracks but goes unnoticed by the two women.

There is an air of indecision radiating from Roger, head tilted down but at least he is now looking at my Mark's shoes instead of the strange artwork decorating Joanne's apartment. A small popping sound of joints cracking catches my attention as I notice the leather covering Roger's hand strain. When Roger gets nervous, or at least this is what my Mark had told me from time to time, he cracks his knuckles. It's just one of those idiosyncrasies that my Mark loves to obsess over. I watch his lips part, the tip of his tongue runs along the soft flesh before the glint of teeth refract in my lens and I see him begin to anxiously worry the lower lip.

They never talked about how they were going to act.

I see Roger discreetly glance over at my Mark. His clouded gaze flits over my Mark's body, falling upon the probably furrowed brow and sadly familiar kicked puppy dog look that I'm sure my Mark must be wearing.

"Well," Joanne says with a strained voice, finally turning her attention back towards us "you two must be hungry," and she thankfully manages to break the odd moment between the two couples.

* * *

As my Mark would say, you could have cut the tenfold tension in the room with a dull knife. And if I, an inanimate object, could pick up on that palpable strain it had to be fierce.

However, it might be because of the wonderful seating arrangements that Maureen engineered. Both of the couples, though neither Maureen nor Joanne had any idea that my Mark and his Roger are in fact a couple, are seated across from one another. I would agree that I probably is an awfully sweet thing to gaze into one another's eyes, it's downright awkward to be forced to do so when your counterpart just denied any 'more than friendly' affection towards you. Though I might still be just a little bit bitter. Can you really blame me? And, my Mark has decided to place me beside his silverware, off to the right so that I'm once again facing our old friend, Stoic Roger.

While there had been a nice stream of banter between my Mark and Maureen, even a few actual bits of conversation between my Mark and sweet Joanne, Roger has yet to speak a single syllable. My Mark has tried in vain to get Roger to join the conversations but all he gets is a guttural grunt of indifference or a shoulder shrug.

Awesome time to go antisocial again Rog.

"So," my Mark says with a small smile in his voice that I pick up on instantly. I notice Roger glance up at my Mark for a moment as he mashes a lump of baked potato beneath the prongs of his fork. "Is there any particular reason you invited us over, rather than to just let us mooch?" A self-deprecating laugh is cut short as both my Mark and I see Roger flinch at the comment.

"Actually, yes," Joanne begins and I hear her gently place an eating utensil down onto the large china plate. She takes a short breath just as Maureen starts to talk right over her in an excited voice that she generally reserves for her own accomplishments and tiny triumphs.

"My Joanne was just assigned a very high profile case that'll be all over the news networks and papers." If I did not know Maureen as well as I do I almost would have thought she was gushing. Wait, that's exactly who Maureen is, but she's gushing over someone else's accomplishments.

"Congratulations," my Mark says with a genuine smile. I feel a familiar sweaty palm brush against my back as my Mark touches me absentmindedly.

"Thank you, Mark," Joanne replies before explaining in depth about the case. It's actually a rather interesting predicament, something about a lesbian mother and custody of her children, a very worthy cause that is surprisingly enough getting a lot of intense news attention. However, it might be because of whom her ex-husband is, some rising star, hotshot political figure. After explaining the case, my Mark surely lost after the first couple minutes and Maureen just smiling and nodding, there is a short lull in the conversation. And apparently my Mark feels the need to fill the gap.

"Well," he begins, finger's gripping my sides and I know instantly that he is looking straight at his Roger. "Roger also just got a steady jo-"

"What Mark means is," Roger cuts my Mark off rather abruptly, though he now is looking my Mark directly in the eye. There is a hard warning glint putting a razor sharp edge to Roger's gaze. It's a look that I have only seen once before, back in the Needle Days when my Mark and me walked in on his Roger playing dirty games with that evil needle girl and her white powder and searing fire. I can feel the nearly impermeable rattle of the table as Roger places his fork rather forcibly upon the hardwood table, "I'm just working now on Friday nights at the Pyramid club, that's all." The musician says, his voice getting quieter as he comes to the end of his sentences, as if he's run out of steam. He sounds tired. "It's nothing, really." Roger mumbles quietly, more so to himself and my Mark than to Maureen and Joanne.

Nothing? Yesterday it was almost all he could talk about, waking my Mark and I up from our afternoon nap and everything. He was ecstatic, nearly vibrating with so much life that my Mark and I have not seen in a long time. Roger had been beautiful in that moment, with the acoustic slung around his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. A sweet, haunting melody playing in my mind. How can he say that it's nothing? There is definitely something else going on that my Mark and I are completely missing.

"What?" My Mark replies, his voice quite and confused, fading beneath sweet Joanne's congratulations.

"No, that's great Roger," sweet Joanne reassures him with a brilliant smile in her voice that makes me love her even more in that moment.

"Thanks," Roger murmurs before turning his attention back towards the half eaten baked potato and salad.

"Yeah, really, Roger, it's fantastic," Maureen chimes in, though I know she's looking at my Mark and not his Roger.

* * *

"What the _fuck_ was that, Roger?"

My Mark hardly ever swears, especially at his Roger.

I'm scared.

"What's going on?" The acoustic asks panicked as soon as my Mark throws open the sliding door and stomps over to the stainless steal table. Roger's acoustic has momentarily forgetting that he is not suppose to be seen 'cavorting' with me, giving in and speaking to me.

"Shh," I whisper, though the sound wavers as I feel a reel of terror course through my little body. I'm scared out of my mind as Mark slams me down onto the table beside Roger's acoustic guitar. My Mark never stands up to Roger like this, head on and figurative guns blazing. I'm in a fucking episode of the Twilight Zone here. And to top it all off, before I even realize what I'm doing, I find myself all snuggled up to the acoustic. I'm pressing my little body beside his long, hard wooden frame and he responds. The acoustic is pulling me closer with intangible fingers, protecting me from the hailstorm that is about to rain down upon Roger.

"Mark," Roger whispers, attempting to calm my Mark as best he can. You know, for some reason I don't think it's working, Roger. He slides the loft's door closed, a loud metallic clang echoing through the loft. I watch as Roger shuffles closer to where my Mark is standing, his back facing his Roger. I flinch as I see Roger's long fingers brush against my Mark's shoulder.

"No." My Mark snaps, rounding on Roger. Startled, the musician takes a step backwards. "Tell me." My Mark's voice is louder than I've ever heard it, though it's nothing to rival Roger's when he gets worked up.

"What?"

"You completely shut down." My Mark tries to push past his Roger, shoving his index finger roughly into Roger's shoulder to emphasize his words. I watch as he heads towards the door again. I know that he is not going anywhere. For a moment Roger just stands there, transfixed with the oddest expression. Something in his eyes shifts and I see that hard edge break through, he grabs my Mark's wrist in a grip I'm sure will leave discolored bruises on his pale flesh. Twisting his arm around, Roger turns my Mark to face him.

"Roger!" I hear the acoustic and myself cry out in surprise as Roger slams my stunned Mark up against the heavy metal door.

The loud clang echoes again.

"What?" Roger's lips are almost brushing against my Mark's mouth as he yells. "Just because I didn't hold little Marky's hand, I'm a fuck up?" Sarcasm and venom drip from Roger's words and I know exactly where the Fender gets his volatile personality from, this side of my Mark's Roger. He backs away and suddenly drops my Mark's hands and his palm comes to press against my Mark's cheek. I watch the odd contrast to his voice and the tender way his thumb caresses my Mark's cheekbone. "Maybe I don't want them to know." His voice is low and I almost don't hear what he says.

My Mark's heart breaks, and for a single moment so does mine.

"What, so it's okay for the rest of New York City to know you're _fucking_ me but not our friends?" My Mark tries to push his Roger away, his hands caught between their bodies as Roger presses closer.

"It's different, Mark!"

"Well maybe you should fucking clarify it for me because I don't see how!" My Mark is still struggling, full strength in his voice though only half-heartedly in body.

The tension snaps and a reel of film tears clean in two.

"I-I-It jus-" another metallic clang sounds as Roger's mouth clashes with my Mark's and his head is knocked back against the door. I can hear the asymmetrical clicking of teeth and slippery tongues fighting for dominance. Ragged breathing and my Mark's coat goes flying across the room as Roger peels it from his body. "Is," he breaths against my Mark's lips, grinding his hips savagely against my Mark. There is still and undercurrent of anger and suppressed rage channeled into a different mode. But I watch as it slowly dissolves as my Mark and his Roger become too caught up with one another to really be upset and violent, just a level of intensity I have never been privy to see from either man.

"Roger," a choked moan as Roger's hands slip beneath the hem of my Mark's sweater. I see his hand trail up to brush the cold flesh of his fingertips against my Mark's warm nipples. My Mark's thin hips thrust against the thigh that has been pressed between them. His head falls back as his Roger nips along the pale throat before kissing him again, all tongue, teeth and hot puffs of breath.

"And fucking Maureen," I hear Roger grit out between clenched teeth as he tears off my Mark's sweater and throws it in the opposite direction of the coat.

"Rog," my Mark gasps as his bare flesh comes into contact with the freezing cold metal. Roger's hands slide around to his shoulder blades as his tongue trails a slippery pathway down towards my Mark's collarbone. "Uhhmmm," my Mark moans unintelligibly as he bucks against Roger again, slipping his arms around Roger's waist and beneath his warm leather jacket. Large hands glide down my Mark's back, below his waistband to grip his ass.

"Why did you have to tell them?" Roger asks in puffs of hot breath against sweaty skin as he grinds his cock against my Mark's thigh. There is no anger in his words, only…sorrow?

"W-what?" my Mark asks, a little to far gone with lust to comprehend what Roger is saying.

"Why'd ya tell them?"

"Tell them what?" my Mark asks again, pulling Roger's hands out of his pants, clasping them in his.

"About the stupid, shitty job…" Roger doesn't look at my Mark.

"I thought you were excited about it." Pale fingertips caress the underside of Roger's chin, tilting his face up so he can see my Mark's eyes. He slowly cards his fingers through Roger's bleached hair, coming to rest at the nape of the musician's neck. My Mark's deft fingers rub tiny, soothing circles there.

"But, compared…" '_to Joanne.' _Is the silent addition that both my Mark and I add onto the statement. Roger, an inferiority complex? I do believe that hell has just frozen over solid. My Mark's eyes soften and I see him pull Roger's hands close to his chest, over his heart. I would be getting misty eyed if I could cry. "I'll never be able to give you anything, Mark." Roger mumbles, leaning into the tender touch of my Mark's fingers. "Just fucking and music." My Mark presses a soft kiss against Roger's rough lips, pouring everything he's got into the caress.

"Oh please," the twang of the Fender draws all my attention away from the sweet moment between my Mark and his Roger. My skin would be crawling hearing that malicious asshole degrading both of our owner's moment together.

"Shut up, Fender." I spit back, suddenly all to aware of my proximity to my Beautiful Acoustic.

"Ooo, Camera's got some teeth," the Fender drawls in a slow mocking tone. "Who would have guessed?" Unnoticed by the couple literally kissing and making up, the Fender slides onto the opposite end of the couch so he is closer to the stainless steal table. "You really thing your Mark deserves our Roger?" For the life if me I can't understand why he hates my poor Mark so much.

"Strat, stop," the acoustic mumbles a low warning that does nothing to stop the Fender's diatribe.

"Yeah, right," he wines, voice almost sounding electrified in that moment. "He's just screwing around with him until another _female _groupie from the Pyramid wiggles her fine ass into his bed." I hear him pause for dramatic affect and I know the axe is about to fall. "Kind of like the Acoustic with you."

"What did you say?" I ask, inspired slightly by my Mark's display of assertiveness towards his Roger.

"It's exactly like how Roger's Acoustic," he nudges his sleek body towards the acoustic as I feel the warm wood move away from where I was comfortable to be wrapped in his embrace. Cold and abandoned, I glare at the Fender. "Is just fucking you until Roger finds himself another new object for him to couple up with." I nearly send my little body catapulting off the stainless steal table, honed in on destroying the Fender, even if I must sacrifice a shattered lens. But instead of a single, very Roger-ish, blaze of glory, I find myself being picked up. My Mark's fingers wrap around my body and I'm suddenly aware the two men have moved.

"Come on, Roger," my Mark whispers before I see his other hand wrap around the neck of the acoustic. Jealousy courses through me, though I'm not sure whom it is directed towards. "Play me something."

Inside Roger's room my Mark settles down on the old spring mattress while Roger, standing at the foot of the bed, does a quick tune-up. The notes sound all wrong, twisted and contorted into some strange, ugly melody.

"Camera, listen," the acoustic begins, his singsong voice flat and boring. "I'm sorry," a sour note like before, something he's not used to saying very often. "Strat. shouldn't have said thos-" I cut him off.

"The fucking Fender shouldn't ha-What about you?" I pause, my voice sounds so strange. "Why didn't _you_ say something?" Another horrible note echoes through the small room and Roger continues to tweak the strings.

"I-I-I jus-You don't understand." Roger's same inexplicable defense tactic reflected back.

"Oh yes I do." I begin, finally getting to say everything I wanted to this morning. "I heard everything, Acoustic!"

"Fuck." Roger mumbles.

"Everything the Fender said to you last night." My voice is so strained I thing a screw has definitely come loose. "And you didn't have the brass cords to stand up for what you love." He visibly winces. I feel everything swell within my tiny body as I look at the Beautiful Acoustic who is breaking my heart. "I love you."

Roger finally found a golden chord.

* * *

**AN**: Happy sigh, but it's not over yet! More explanation of asshole!Fender in next chapter. Plus Camera/Acoustic fluff! 


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Mark's Glasses/Roger's Ring, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** Kiss andmakeup as well as a new couple!

**Rating: **Chapter Seven: R

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN**: Why is the Fender an ass? Read to the last line and find out! wink, wink More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied **

**Chapter Seven**

Makeup sex is the best.

Even for an inanimate object.

Even without the real soft little, open mouthed kisses my Mark is rather fond of receiving from his Roger.

It really is amazing. There is nothing like it on earth. Well, possibly chocolate. But since I'm rather lacking in the whole taste bud department I'm not really qualified to make a comparison between the two. But still, I cannot think of anything like the feel of hard, varnished wood and taut strings pressed against me, catching on my crank and turning painfully slow until I'm begging for more. The low humming of a sinfully seductive melody, expression of sheer pleasure. Golden notes pouring from his body, resonating throughout the loft and sending my little sprockets spinning into a virtual tailspin of orgasmic proportions.

Undeniable.

I mean, it's all raw, pent up emotions spilling over, dousing you both in a sticky sweat, well not for acoustic and myself, but my Mark and his Roger seem to be drenched from head to toe on Roger's old spring mattress. An unstoppable torrent of love and passion. Everything is about comfort, every kiss, every lingering touch. Sweet forgiveness, atonement for your sins and trespasses. It's beautiful. Just contact and release, nothing more is needed.

Beyond words.

But, I digress.

After my Beautiful Acoustic produced that breathtaking chord an eerie silence fell over the loft. The world stood still for one single moment. I swear not even my Mark and his Roger breathed, clinging to the heartbreaking beauty of that split second before it passed us by. I could still feel the lingering remnants of sound resonating within my body as Roger finally moved his fingers away from the strings, allowing them to loosely wrap around the acoustic's neck. Both boys basked in the afterglow of perfection before my Mark broke the stillness.

"Wow," my Mark murmured in a breathless voice, utterly mesmerized by his musician. I could hear the tiniest of smiles creeping into my Mark's voice as he spoke. Slowly, he rose from the foot of Roger's bed where he had been filming the private performance. The no doubt rusted, coiled springs shifted, shattering the calm with an odd clunking noise. "Rog…" my Mark whispered again as he stepped towards his wordless Roger. My Mark was holding tightly onto my little body with white knuckles, still filming the scene around us. Pressed against his leather-clad chest, I guess Roger had wrapped his coat around my Mark while I had been slightly distracted by my little Kamikaze attempt on the Asshole Fender, I watched the acoustic become larger as my Mark stopped in front of his Roger.

"Was that for me?" I found my voice somehow and managed to squeak out those few words before my film wound extra tight, attempting to steel myself against whatever the acoustic said. My voice sounded hesitant, pathetic and all too weak to truly belong to me. It was the complete reverse of the intense vigor I had been feeling only seconds before my heated confession. Waiting anxiously for the acoustic's answer I heard Roger's quiet reply to my Mark.

"Yeah," Roger mumbled in disbelief. I cannot remember hearing a chord as clean, clear and perfectly executed as that since before the first Needle Girl and that nasty white powder. Eyes a little glazed in bewildered surprise were still glued to the acoustic lying soundlessly against his sharp hipbone. His long fingers anxiously unwrapped and rewrapped around the guitar's neck. My Mark's Roger finally spoke, a bittersweet laugh pulling up the corners of his mouth in a smile. "Was 'fraid I'd totally lost my touch…" His bright eyes, full of life and happiness unlike I've ever caught on film before, looked up at my Mark from beneath a few wayward strands of messy bleached blond hair, all full on love and exhilaration.

My sweet, silly Mark gasped quietly, feigning to be affronted by Roger's claim to have lost his 'touch,' musically or otherwise. Smiling brilliantly, a bit of mischief glinting in his eyes, my Mark scolded him mockingly with a whispered, "blasphemer!" His voice trailed off as he leaned his small frame against Roger's, standing on his tiptoes to press a lingering kiss to the taller boy's lips. After a few moments of slow kisses Roger pulled away to slip the guitar strap off his shoulder and carefully place the acoustic on the floor, he did not have a nice old dresser like my Mark.

"Hey," Roger murmured my Mark's lips between kisses, voice husky and thick with lust against. His large hands slipped beneath the worn material of his own leather jacket that was resting on my Mark's thin shoulders, caressing the warm skin under. "You know, this is kinda hot," he said with a smirk as he pulled away to admire the image of my Mark clad only in a pair of unbuttoned blue jeans and a leather jacket that was obviously not his own. A deep flush quickly crawled up my Mark's neck, tinting his cheeks a soft pink color. "That's even better," my Mark's Roger whispered as one hand wrapped around my Mark's waist and the other took hold of me.

"Roge-" My Mark began to protest as Roger gently pried me out of my Mark's fingers.

"Don't worry, Mark," Roger replied with a grin and a quick kiss against my Mark's parted lips. "I'll put him right by the acoustic," he bent down to place me beside the Beautiful Acoustic, close enough to see him trembling but not enough to touch him. "Safe and sound," he purred into my Mark's ear just before sliding both his arms around my Mark's waist. They stumbled backwards towards the mattress that lay on the floor without any semblance of a bed frame whatsoever. I tried to move closer to the acoustic once Roger and tumbled my Mark into his bed, stripping him of his jeans and boxers but leaving the leather on.

Odd child.

"A-acoustic?" I called to him tentatively. I curse myself for awkwardly fumbling with the familiar word as I tried desperately to sound confident. Trying as hard as I can, I look at him with a solid expression, hoping that I'm not somehow giving my every emotion away through my transparent lens. Good luck with that one camera. That ship had already sailed, a long before I had even made a sound.

"You love me?" His voice was quiet but level, unlike my stammering tone. However, I heard the telltale undercurrent of insecurity running deep within his melodic tone. I could feel the apprehension radiating from his body as I shifted closer to where he lay on the hardwood floor.

"Yes," I whispered, finally pressing myself against his warm side. He did not move away, if anything I feel him move closer. I always fit perfectly into the little curve of his body. "Is that so hard to believe?" I asked, looking up at him with sorrow and hope twisting my words into odd sounding syllables.

How could he not have known? Oh, doubt poisoned his mind by that damned scarf and the fucking Fender.  
"I-I wasn't sure if y-," he started to lose his composure, an odd lilting quality twists his melodic voice. He realized he almost lost me; he almost jeopardized what he had because of a silly assumption he had made without asking me first. I watched as he began to nervously fidget, his strings going painfully before relaxing and going slack. The anxious compulsion appeared so similar to Roger cracking his knuckles in his jacket pocket tonight at Joanne's apartment.

How utterly and completely Roger Davis of him.

"You know now." I reassured him in a soothing tone, my voice glossed over with flimsy film clogging up my body as I try to rein in my emotions. I wish more now that ever that I had lips like my Mark so that I could press a gentle, comforting kiss to my Beautiful Acoustic. If only I had hands to brush away all the hurt and misunderstanding and arms to hold him, but I can try in my own way. Pressing close against his body I tried to show him all the love he had not seen before.

"I just," he began, pausing to sigh at his own irrational thoughts. "I didn't want to put you through Strat.'s shit for nothing." I could feel him look away from my body pressed against his. The hard wood heated up a fraction of a degree and I know he would-be blushing if he could, embarrassed beyond belief for everything that I would reject him. "I mean, if you didn't love me…I didn't want…" He trails off, not wanting to linger on that subject. "I thought it would be easier if I took the brunt of his ignorance, breaking things off between us before he had a chance to hurt you." So he had beendefending me, in his own way.

"You don't have to stand alone, Acoustic." I told him with a small smile, nuzzling against his curved body. Spinning my film a little so that the turn crack will move, I drag it over the taut strings, plucking out a quite tune. Based on the rhythmic sound of the springs bouncing behind us and Roger's whimpering, I'm pretty sure that my Mark and his Roger are a little too caught up in one another to notice anything that we are doing on the hardwood floor.

"Mmmmh, Camera," he moaned, low inside his hollow body so that it resonated all throughout his body, the waves of vibrations transferring into mine as I pressed tighter against him.

"Shhhh," I hushed him with a giddy laugh as he managed to tip onto his side so that he can snap a cord more easily. I feel the cool metallic string wrap around my screws, tweaking and twisting them so that all I can focus on is the rough sensation of cold, hard metal on metal. A shiver runs through my body and I know that there is no way I'm going to be able to preserve my Mark's film tonight.

"I love you," the acoustic whispered. My would-be heart is about to burst out of my tiny body as I hear him finally say it out loud. Only for me to hear as he press an intangible kiss against my body hugging me tight to him. He loves me.

The Beautiful Acoustic Guitar loves the Dorky Little Nothing Camera.

"I know," I murmured back as we both hear my Mark's low, hiccupping moan of completion, followed shortly by Roger before the two collapsed in a heap of sweaty limbs and whispers.

"They're so sweet together!" The adoring voice of my Mark's glasses cut through the sound of my Mark and Roger and I just know that she is referring to the acoustic and myself right alongside our Mark and his Roger. Even from the makeshift nightstand she sounds content and head over heels in love.

"None as sweet as you," a low tinny voice replied as I heard my Mark's glasses reply with a sweet laugh. Roger's ring. The two are probably canoodling over there on the bedside table, just thrilled to be together again after nearly a long time apart. My would-be heart swelled again at the thought of my friend finally with getting the chance to be with her longtime love.

So that's how I got to the here and now, tangled up in a sweet labyrinth of snapped cords and metallic strings, some caught in loose screws and several wound about my turn crank. Slippery sweet film exploded all over the place, a few inches once again woven into the two lone cords that are still strung along the acoustic's long, sleek neck. I know that both my Mark and his Roger are going to freak when the see us tomorrow morning. I can just hope they'll both be in a good, sated mood.

But, just on the brink of falling asleep, pulling me down beneath the tempting waves of warmth and solace that I've found in the warm afterglow of make up sex with my Beautiful Acoustic, I hear Roger speak.

"Mark?" His voice lilts through the air, sounding muffled because his face is pressed against my Mark's naked back. The sound of lips smacking against wet skin echo through the room as he trails a few kisses along the soft skin just beneath my Mark's sharp shoulder blade. I hear rustling sheets, though both boys are lying on top of the dirty rags, and slick skin sliding over skin. One of Roger's large hands presses against the smaller boy's hipbone as he props his head up with the other hand, arm bent at the elbow and pressing into the old mattress. My Mark has now finds himself rolled on his back so that he is looking up at his Roger.

"Mmmmh?" My Mark moans, apparently not in favor of being moved from where his back was molded against Roger's warm chest. However, I see his silhouetted thin wrist and hand move from resting on his stomach to press against his Roger's cheek. My Mark's thumb sooths over the delicate skin beneath his Roger's eye. Soft skin, in comparison to Roger's callused fingers, drags over the light stubble covering Roger's cheek. My Mark's hand moves lower, playing with the thin beads of the tight necklace that Roger wore, fingertips dipping into the hollow of Roger's throat.

"We'll tell them on Friday at the Pyramid club," he pauses and I can just see the little grin pulling at his lips, positively wicked. A short laugh rings through the musician's room before he continues with that smirk contorting his words. "I mean after 10pm it is Gay 80's night."

All I hear of my Mark's reply is a delighted squeak and the hard slap of naked flesh as he pounces on his Roger, smothering him with sweet little kisses.

* * *

A strange, low wailing sound drags me away from the warm contented world of afterglow a few hours later. Glancing at the clock I see that it is around four o'clock in the morning, that is only if the power is on today and the clock is actually working properly. I pause to wonder why I'm awake when the odd sound comes again, muffled by the loft's paper-thin walls. However, it seems like the sound is not only being muted by the walls but by something heavier, thicker.

Almost like a heavy cloth material.

"Camera, you hear that?" The acoustic asks quietly, his voice still laden with sleep but tinged with a bit of slight unease.

"Yeah, what is that?" I ask, more confused than before when I hear the sound again, longer this time and a lower pitch than before. As I snuggle closer to the side of the acoustic guitar I feel an intangible force, the same one as before, wrap protectively around my little body.

"Plaid Pants, Scarf, can either of you guys see what that sound was?" The acoustic calls to the Plaid Pants and my ex-Beloved who are a little ways away from where we were placed near Roger's mattress. The ever fuck-happy couple had been discarded on the floor of Roger's bedroom, close to the doorframe so that a pant leg was lying across the threshold and the scarf was belted around the waistline. Wiggling a little bit in an odd fashion that I know is bound to drive my ex-Beloved crazy, the Plaid Pants manage to slide into the hall to get a look at what is going on in the small living room.

"Dude," is all he says in a low murmur, surprise and complete shock.

"Oh my!" I hear my ex-Beloved gasp. "Now that is truly scandalous," he whispers with intrigue before all he can do is dissolve into a quivering ball of silly giggling yarn and would-be blushing fabric.

"You are never going to believe what I am seeing here dudes," the Plaid Pants continue as they soundlessly slink out of sight and further down the hall to investigate the matter.

I glance up at the acoustic, silently asking if we should also go have a look at what is so unbelievable. He starts to shuffle closer to the door, taking it slow so he won't scuff up his wooden body or wake up my Mark and his Roger. Following suit, I slide against the floor and am about to reach the doorway when I hear the acoustic mumble something that sounds like, "oh you have got to be fucking kidding me…" I watch as he does not go out into the hall to follow the Plaid Pants but instead waits for me.

"What is it?"

"Look," he instructs but does not move from where he has propped himself up against the doorframe.

I carefully slide my little body out into the hall, only a fraction of an inch to just peek around the chipped doorframe. The living room of the loft is bathed in pale moonlight. At first glance my lens falls upon my Mark's Plaid Coat, a circumspect sweet little boy who barely speaks to anything and is always fidgeting nervously when he was not wrapped around Mark's thin frame. Heaven knows I've tried to talk to him a few times but he always replies with short one word answers, though he's always amiable just not talkative. Perhaps he's more like the introverted side of my Mark.

Anyways, he was lying across the living room where Roger had tossed him after unceremoniously stripping my Mark while pressing him up against the loft's sliding metal door. Of course the poor little dear is moving again, fidgeting like normal when he is left alone. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Except when I zoom in, focusing my lens as I strained to see in the dimly lit room. That's when I notice what everyone else did before me. Beneath my Mark's favorite part of his coat, fuzzy collar, peeks out the very head and tuners of Roger's unplugged Fender Stratocaster.

A very aroused Fender Stratocaster.

A Fender Stratocaster that is definitely moaning for my Mark's Plaid Coat.

* * *

**AN**: (hums Dirty Little Secret) A classic ending! 


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Roger's, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Roger's Fender Stratocaster/Mark's Plaid Coat, Collins' Knit Skullcap/Angel's 10-Gallon Plastic Pickle Tub, Mark/Roger

**Summary:** Collins drops in on the boys.

**Rating: **Chapter Eight PG-13

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN**: For all intensive purposes we are calling Collins' hat a knit 'SkullCap,' or Cap for short. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Eight **

At first glance, one would assume that Roger's Plaid Pants and my Mark's Plaid coat would go perfectly well together; birds of a feather or something like that. But, you know, in reality it would all just be too horribly tacky to bear. I mean, Plaid on Plaid, it just makes me shiver. Also, those two personalities together, the laidback, haughty yet oddly sweet Plaid Pants and the unbelievably shy and reserved Plaid Coat, two extreme versions of their owners traits, would be so odd in a relationship. They would never find anything in common except wanting to fuck each other's Plaid brains out. However, all that definitely does not mean that in a million plus years I would even begin to image the most remote, sliver of a possibility that Roger's Asshole of a Fender Stratocaster would be shaking up with my Mark's sweet Plaid Coat.

But it does explain a lot.

I guess it is true what my Mark always said about chauvinists, though I've only caught bits and pieces because usually he was filming them and muttering more so to himself than me. Generally, my Mark says that those who have some kind of blind hatred for some characteristic of another person (or inanimate object in our case) are probably just lashing out against the same characteristic that they know is also within themselves that they simply cannot cope with. For example, the Fender's bigotry, talking about me as a "fucked up bi-inanmateual" in addition to calling the acoustic and mine's 'cross-personal object' relationship something vile when _he, _himself, is screwing around with one of _my Mark's_ pieces of _clothing_.

Classic.

Guilty on both accounts.

The Fucking Fender Stratocaster, what a hypocrite.

However, that pure logic and nice, simple rationalization that I just spewed above, all of which I concluded post-facto, yeah, well that did not help me out in the heat of the moment. Basically, I passed out cold at the sight of those two going at it. Right there, on those splendidly crappy wooden floorboards, I blacked out. Pathetic, I know, but it was really a shock to the system. Granted I may have been a little more than fatigued thanks to my Beautiful Acoustic guitar's desire to show me _how much_ he loves me in just about every way, shape and form known to inanimate objects worldwide. So, about three fourths of the way down the hall to the 'living room,' far enough for my zoom and my lens to adapt to the darkness, I fainted. Which is were I was unceremoniously woken up by a soft and low murmuring voice, echoed faintly by solid footsteps and an almost palpable, all too familiar, knowing grin.

Oh, ahhh, woah!

Eeep!

"What are you doing out here in the hall, little buddy?" Large warm hands wrap around my little body as I'm suddenly picked up off the floor and pulled into the air about five feet up. My sleep-laden mind is still a jumble of stock images and is thrown completely sideways as I find myself tipped on my side. A couple inches of precious film are still wound all about me, caught on my turn crank, thanks to the acoustics magic chords. Fingers, not as callused as Roger's but definitely not as nibble and soft as my Mark's start to tug gently at the film, attempting to stuff it back inside my body without having any clue as to what in the world he is doing to my delicate frame. You cannot just jam film back inside a camera. I really don't work that way!

I require finesse, dammit!

"Collins," I try yelling at him in vain, hoping that somehow by a miracle or stroke of madness he'll suddenly be able to understand me. "Put me down right this instant, young man," my voice sounds ridiculous when I'm trying to be both menacing and threatening and I just know this is not going to end well, but I'm desperate. "I said now!" And of course he does not understand me whatsoever.

Crazy anarchist.

Not that I don't love him like my Mark and his Roger do, I really do, but I've seen how he loves to take apart appliances and other unsuspecting victims of the machine-object persuasion and I would rather not be subject to any such tinkering and so-called 'improvements.' I'll just take a rain check. I'm not really in the whole 'revamping' mood this morning, or any morning, day or evening for that matter. Especially since I just started liking myself the way I am again.

I resign myself to my fate as a hunk of useless scrap metal that was once a functional camera as I feel him continue to try and stuff the film back into me. Thankfully though, this time he threads it correctly, syncing everything up perfectly. Of course he would never really do anything to permanently screw with my temperamental mechanics since he knows how dear I am to my Mark, but you never can be one hundred percent sure of anything with Collins—again, anarchist. My delicate film, all nice and fingerprinted, is queued up to where my Mark stopped filming his Roger's performance last night. I feel Collins turn me right side up and test out my weight before taking a peek through my eyepiece with a self-satisfied smile.

"Now, let's go find your owner," Collins said quietly, already filming as he sets out on his quest to find my Mark. He starts by wandering down the hall, heading towards the empty bedroom that belongs to my Mark. Not quite sure what he'll find in there but it will for sure not be my Mark.

"Hey man, what's up?" A low, warm voice, sounding like a composite of several different tenors, all different strands knit together but speaking as one voice, calls down to me from atop Collins head. Collin's old SkullCap. Back when Collins used to live in the loft, it seems like nearly a lifetime ago, Cap and I were really good buddies. Whenever we got the chance he would always talk to me about either in-depth philosophical rants or detailed stories about adventures he had Collins went on in the Village. Personally, I always preferred the rare combination of the two.

But then Collins left and there had been a huge hole in my daily life. No more 'Fireside' SkullCap Chit Chat Time. No Descartes, no Hegel, no Heidegger, no Arendt, nothing. Not even Snagging and Shagging Pretty Boys, well a little from my Mark's Glasses, but that wasn't really the same since there was no Shagging because our Mark was deeply, deeply in denial and totally afraid of even jacking off to the thought of Pretty Boys like his Roger. All in all, I'd really missed talking to him. So, every time Collins comes for a short visit I just get tickled pink to get to talk to him again.

"Nothing really," I reply with a lopsided smile embarrassingly evident in my small voice. With Cap you have to start out blasé, like nothing is really happening and then drop the big bombshell. I can barely contain all the nervous energy that is building up inside my body. I can't wait to tell him that everything has changed. So much is different and I just know he will be just as excited about is as the acoustic and me. Pausing for a moment I take a depth breath, or at least imagine taking one, and decide it to tell him first about my Mark and his Roger before Collins stumbles upon the happy couple zonked out on Roger's bed, hopefully they're under the sheets by now. "Well, actually," I start, my voice almost quaking with excitement, "Mark and Roger finally hooked up."

"I'll be damned!" He replies with a deep laugh that would be rebounding off the walls. I can see by the way Collins adjusts Cap that he's about ready to roll onto the floor to start laughing wholeheartedly. "That's fucking fantastic," there is a grin in his voice and I just know he's as thrilled for the Boho boys as I am. "You know, Collins and I have been waiting to see when those two boys would finally crack," of course they have, how could I expect anything less.

"Yeah," I murmur in agreement, still grinning. There is a short lull as I debate with myself about whether or not I should telling him about my Beautiful Acoustic or wait to do it together with the acoustic. Finally settling on the latter I turn my attention onto what Cap has been keeping himself busy with while he and Collins are away from the loft. "How 'bout you?" I ask in a more somber tone.

"Hmmm, not in there," Collins mutters to himself and, I guess, to me also as he glances around my Mark's empty bedroom. He lingers on the mattress, a prolonged shot of the unmade bed sheets and a flat pillow, probably assuming that my Mark has already woken up. However, he cannot really think that since it is far to early for my two Boho boys to be awake and roaming around the loft—really anything before eleven o'clock is inhumane and ungodly.

"Well, you know that me and Gal are still going strong," Cap says with a broad grin evident in his voice. While our sweet Angel left us quite some time ago there was the matter of the 10-gallon plastic pickle tub that Collins kept. Everyone calls her 'Gal' for short. And of course what sweeter 'cross-personal' and bi-inanmateual couple can you get but Collins's SkullCap and Angel's 10-Gallon Plastic Pickle Tub. They are the most perfect definition of 'in love' I have seen between two inanimate objects to date. "You still with Mark's Scarf, Camera?" I almost leap out of Collins's hands at the question, feeling a cold shiver run along my body.

"Well, actuall-" I begin shyly before I'm interrupted by Roger's Plaid Pants cries of anguish.

"Dude!" The Plaid Pants yelp of protest to being stepped on by Collins as he comes to stand in Roger's doorway. His voice, uncharacteristically uptight, is closely followed by my ex-Beloved's whine of, "Collins, watch where you're going!"

"Shit," I swear as the image of Roger's back fills my lens. This is certainly not going to end well for my Mark. I don't really know about how Roger will take it based on last night's performance but my Mark will for sure not be pleased to be caught in such a compromising position. Telling someone you're now going out with and fucking your once best friend, male best friend to be exact, and them finding you two in bed together still in a sweet morning-after phase are two completely different animals. And I'm almost two hundred and fifty percent sure my Mark would die before he had someone find him in Roger's bed, naked, with an equally naked Roger.

"Oh, ho, ho snap," Collins chuckles to himself in a low and overtly mischievous manner.

From where we are standing the image is rather provocative and surprisingly ambiguous. The dirty sheets are at least pulled up just barely enough to cover Roger's fine ass, falling below the slight curve of his sharp hipbone, clinging to his body like a second skin. Apparently Roger liked the position he was in last night, curled up on his side with one arm tucked beneath his head so that my Mark's entire body is shielded by Roger's body from anyone looking in on the two. However, at the bottom of the ratty mattress, peeking out beneath the sheets are two pairs of feet so it is also obvious to Collins that Roger defiantly has someone in bed with him.

"Looks like Roger finally got himself laid post-Mimi," I feel Collins pull away from my eyepiece and turn his head to glance down the hallway, looking to see if maybe my Mark is in the bathroom and could be pressed for information concerning the two Sleeping Beauties. But when he hears nothing, no rusty pipes and rushing water, he decides to find out the old fashion way, by simply asking the musician himself about his choice in a bedmate. I hear a rush of wind as he sucks in a deep breath before bellowing out a loud, "so Rog, whose the lucky la-"

His voice fills the entire loft, waking both sleeping men.

"Colmmph!" My Mark squeaks out some semblance of Collins's name as he promptly tumbles out of bed. A loud thud follows my Mark's yelp as he slams boney ass first onto the hardwood floor, all neatly tangled up in Roger's bed sheet. A bundle of deeply flushed skin and old white, stained linen; my Mark is the embodiment of sheer embarrassment.

"-dy?" Collins finishes his question before dissolving into a fit of laughter that will surely scar my Mark for the rest of his adult life. Poor baby. My entire shot is distorted as I begin to tremble along with Collins's shaking. "Awwww man," he laughs as Roger rolls over onto his stomach, flashing me a rather interesting and might I dare say succulent, I mean scandalous, visual of his backside in all its glory.

"Woah, Mark, you okay?" Roger asks concerned, reaching out to my Mark to pull away part of the sheet that somehow managed to wrap its way around my poor, unsuspecting Mark's head. Inspecting his boyfriend's bright red cheeks, the musician cannot help but try and bite back the grin I know is battling to pull his lips up. I will admit that even though the situation is terribly bad for my Mark he is simply Adorkable and I know in that instant even more so than before why my Mark's Roger loves him like he does.

"You two finally fucked!"

"I guess that's one down," Roger says quietly to my Mark as he looks down at him with a broad grin, oddly optimistic for his natural brooding character. Though I guess that's what my Mark brings out in him. My Mark just scowls and rubs his hand along his thigh, jumping slightly when he applies just the faintest bit of pressure to his bruised and abused backside.

* * *

"You could have woken us up nicely…" My Mark grumbles as he nervously shifts his elbows around, trying to put a little less pressure on his lower back. Leaning against the small island inside the sad excuse for a kitchen the boys have in the loft, my Mark is practically bent completely over the countertop. And I'm pretty sure, judging by that impish look in Roger's eyes, and the fact they are glued to the pale expanse of skin where my Mark's shirt has ridden up on his back, he is most certainly not adverse to the position. I know for a fact that he is definitely not opposed to his designated role as 'attentive boyfriend,' reveling in the fact he has an excuse to be almost inappropriately close to my Mark's ass while they have company, hiding behind the guise of presses the ice shavings from the freezer against my Mark's poor, bruised backside.

"Like your skinny white ass still wouldn't have fallen out of bed when you heard me waking you up—caught buck naked in Roger's bed." Collins teases as my Mark flushes a bright pink shade, knowing that no matter what he still would have flipped the fuck out and managed to hurt himself.

"My ass is gonna be frozen solid," my Mark complains, dropping his forehead to rest against the countertop. Every once in a while my Mark needs to stop trying to take care of his Roger so completely and allow the musician to take care of him.

"Don't worry, Mark," Roger murmurs in a soft voice that I almost buy, nipping playfully at my Mark's earlobe and laying his warm, naked chest against my Mark's back. "I'll help ya warm it up later," he says with a leer, gently pressing his hips against my Mark, causing the poor boy to yelp in pain and swat feebly at his Roger while Collins looks on with a grin.

"Don't think you'll get off that easy, mister Magic Music Fingers," oh my Mark. I have to say that no matter what I'll always love my disgruntled morning Mark; he's just so stupidly witty. "This is all your fault," he suddenly realizes, glaring over his shoulder at his Roger. "You distracted me with that wicked tongue from locking the door," of course Roger's response is to flick his tongue out and run the flat of it along the side of my Mark's neck.

"Oh, shhh," he scolds my Mark with a small smile, running his hand along my Mark's undamaged hipbone. Placing a short kiss upon my Mark's lips as he glances back at his Roger to protest, my Mark blushes again. Roger grins. "And who is holding your ice pack, hmmm?"

"Those two are priceless together," Collins's SkullCap calls over to us as Collins's begins to actually talk about something of merit while my Mark tries to listen and Roger idly fingers my Mark's pajama bottoms waistband. "You guys must have a ball watching them go at it, in bed and out." No matter how true that is I try and ignore him and the men. Stretched out on the small table in front of the couch, I am playing 'Doc. Roger Davis' with my Beautiful Acoustic. I focus on repairing the couple of snapped cords, all of which I am a direct cause for their snapping, that thankfully Roger did not notice thanks to the great Distraction by Collins and my Mark.

"You wouldn't believe," my Beautiful Acoustic laughs in reply as I wrap a cord around my turn crank and try to string it up along the neck. It proves to be harder than it looks and I lose control. "Ouch!" He cries out as the cord snaps back. We all hold our breath, waiting for my Mark and Roger and Collins to round on us, but thankfully Collins was in the middle of a comedic story and they all had been laughing.

"Sorry," I whisper, pressing a would-be kiss against his body, trying to comfort him as best I can.

"Just, just watch it with the metal cords and the woodwork, Honey," he advises quietly. I pause, just about to successfully string one cord when what he said hits me and I stare at him.

"Honey?" I squeak back in response. A giddy sensation tumbles all around inside my body as he allows the name to hang in the air, not rescinding the sweet endearment. I allow a soft laugh to escape me as I ask him to call me it again. He does and I would-be kiss him again and finally string the cord correctly.

"Wait, I retract my earlier statement," Cap calls to us, catching us off guard, mid-snuggle.

"What?" My Beautiful Acoustic asks confused.

"You two are far more interesting," he replies with another grin. I am beyond thrilled that he agrees with our match. "And I'm so glad to see another 'cross-personal object' relationship," I feel like I'm floating. Everything has changed so completely since last night. I was almost alone and single again, almost missed out on this with my Beautiful Acoustic. I almost lost my Real Love. "Like the Fender and Mark's Plaid Coat, though that's even more revolutionary—object-clothing."

What.

"Like you and that scarf, Collins and I always love pushing the envelope."

My blood, that is if I had any, would be boiling right now, so the only substitution is fried film and an over rotated turn crank. But the acoustic beats me to it with a dangerous groan.

"Fucking Strat."

* * *

My Mark and Roger left us alone in the loft while they went out to go eat an actually decent lunch at the Life Café, on Collins of course since Roger will not be getting paid until Friday. Surprisingly enough Roger convinced my Mark, but only after about ten whole minutes, that he did not need me to just go out for lunch and for the first time in a while I was glad that he left me behind. I have an opportunity to both be with Roger's acoustic and to exchange a few choice words with that wonderfully Hypocritical Fuck of a Fender Stratocaster.

"Acoustic, we've got to do something about him," I whispered, pressing close against him before gesturing silently to the Fender lying against the wall at the end of the couch.

"Now," my Beautiful Acoustic agrees. He starts to shuffle along the small table set up in front of the couch, inching towards the Fender. I follow along beside him before I stop dead in my tracks.

"Camera," the meek voice of the Plaid Coat calls from the opposite end of the duct taped couch. I pause and turn away from the acoustic, glancing behind to see him curled up in a fluffy ball of fabric. He's the smallest I've ever seen him, all rolled in on himself like he doesn't want to be his actual size and cause anymore problems. "Camera wait," he says my name again and I turn around completely to look at him. "I need to talk to you…" he finishes. His voice makes me feel so retched. I know that voice, I've heard that same tone come from me before. Wanting so badly to believe that my ex-Beloved was pure and innocent, nothing like what everyone else was saying.

I cringed.

I wanted to cry for him.

"Please," he begs me; his voice so quiet and these few words are more than he has said to me in an entire year. I look over at my Beautiful Acoustic and see him staring back at me with an odd look. I can't quite read his expression but when he turns away I know he's trying to give the Plaid Coat and I some privacy.

"Alright, speak," I cave, like always.

* * *

**AN**: More? 


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **Preoccupied

**Parings:** Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Roger's, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Roger's Fender Stratocaster/Mark's Plaid Coat, Mark/Roger, Maureen/Joanne

**Summary:** Our two favorite couples (both inanimate and human) have suddenly become a right pair of couple's councilors.

**Rating: **Chapter NinePG-13

**Disclaimer:** So not mine.

**AN**: Done with school! More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar's icon. Still Mark's Camera's perspective.

* * *

**Preoccupied**

**Chapter Nine**

It is almost too predictable. In some twisted way it would be funny, if it weren't so heartbreakingly pathetic.

"I can help him."

Now where have I heard that before?

It's perfect actually. Really, it is, in some sickeningly symmetrical way that the whole universe spins its axis upon. Like I have been saying all along, we are the sweet little manifestations of our owner's idiosyncrasies and best character flaws, some, of course, more flawed than others. My Mark's Little Plaid Coat, the epitome of my Mark's sweet, caring nature. He is that side of my Mark that kept the filmmaker beside his Roger throughout even the worst of the Withdrawal Days just because my Mark _knew_ that no matter what he could somehow help his Roger. Of course the Plaid Coat wants to be the bleeding-heart to reform the Fender Stratocaster, the ultimate mirror image of Roger's many vices, corruption, and the all-round blatant asshole, rock star persona that Roger, thankfully, lost touch with after the disappearance of the White Powder.

I sigh.

"Camera," the Plaid Coat implores, his voice still wholly timid though it is laced with a commanding undercurrent my Mark uses whenever he is asserting himself. I notice the way the Plaid Coat shifts anxiously, stuffing one of his own sleeves up the other to make himself appear even smaller. Wedging himself back into the corner of the cushions, he attempts to give me his best 'steadfast and determined' look that appears pretty meek yet commanding in its honesty. "H-he," the poor thing stumbles over the word before taking a deep, calming breath. I watch as he glances over at the sleeping Fender guitar propped up against the wall where Roger last placed him, situated right alongside the disgustingly sultry amplifier. The Plaid Coat's entire demeanor slowly changes; the hard edge he had been trying to maintain begins to melt away. It's eerie. I've seen that subtle shift in personality before, reflected in the polished wood of my Beautiful Acoustic when he turns to look at me with a slow burning smile. "The Fender, he and I…we," I can almost hear the distant flush in his voice.

"Plai-" I being lamely, shifting closer to him on the small table. I find myself teetering close to the edge as I attempt to comfort him. Thought I was going to try and talk some sense into the poor thing, all he does is cut me off before I can even finish a complete syllable.

"Please," there is a defined note of desperation putting a harsh clipped tone to his voice. I remember hearing that same edge cutting off the last few syllables of my Mark's words whenever he would defend his Roger's actions to a knowing Collins on a particularly bad Withdrawal Day. "Y-you don't know how sweet he can be," I nearly balk at the use of 'sweet' as an adjective to describe that Hypocritical Fuck of a Fender Stratocaster. There has to be something seriously wrong or missing from this clothing's mind. For a moment I cannot find it in myself to even _want_ to listen to the rest of whatever he has to say in defense of the Fender. "H-he's just," the Plaid Coat stammers again, racking his woolly mind for the correct way to express himself. He falls short and I try to prompt him, still horribly irritate and coming to the end of my rope.

"What? He's just what, Plaid?" I wince at the bitter tone of my own voice. I do know in my more rational mind that I should not be so hostile towards the poor Plaid Coat, especially when he cannot control his own metaphysical heart and its eccentric desires. Even I know that no one would voluntarily fall in love with someone so obviously wrong for them.

"It's that amp," he whispers, slowly sliding himself out from between the cushions to lay closer to the lip of the couch. Glancing over at the object in question, he makes sure she is asleep or otherwise preoccupied. His voice is a fierce whisper and I cannot help but take in his every word as the honest truth. I'm being pulled under by the Plaid Coat's misguided concern and compassion. My heart is beginning to break and I am starting to believe the validity of both his predicament and perhaps his love. "She's messing with his mind, he can't function straight when she's always there beside him," he is fiddling nervously with a loose sting of his collar as he maneuvers himself so he's spanned between the couch and the small coffee table I am resting upon with the acoustic. "She's toxic, Camera," is a quiet statement that sends a shiver along the innermost panels of my mechanic body. If I could I would wrap arms around the poor dear, tell him the acoustic and I will do all that we can to help him. "He needs me," he's not longer looking at me, staring off in the direction of the Fender, cast in shadow now as the moon slips behind a cloud.

There is a pause as the words sink into my mind. In the silence I hear the slip slide sound of wood grating against the metal of the coffee table. My Beautiful Acoustic moves beside me, his warm presence is beyond the realm of comforting. I find myself scooting into the alcove of his carved body. Looking up at him I can see the look of muted wonderment ghosting over him. I know that he too will do whatever he can to help the Plaid Coat in any way, shape or form. He has managed pulled us into his own whirlpool of seemingly unrealistic optimism and hope.

Quite the charismatic speaker.

How else do you think my Mark convinced everyone else that Roger was not a lost cause?

"I can make him better!" The Plaid Coat's anxious voice suddenly brings us back to the reality of the situation. "Please," he beseeches us one last time, curling back into himself on the seat cushion.

"Plaid," I begin in a quiet tenor, for only the little Plaid Coat's to hear. The tone I take is one as if I'm explaining something to him beyond his own comprehension, like talking to a child about love and death in seemingly simple terms. "I know you think you can change him, maybe make him better," I tell him, moving away from the acoustic. Almost word for word, I find myself quoting Collins when he finally convinced my Mark to hand his Roger over to a rehab clinic to cure him. He is quite compelling; I'll give him that but even Roger needed more than my Mark. The Fender obviously needs more than a flimsy Plaid Coat he can walk all over to improve his rotten, bigoted attitude. "But that guitar," I make a rude sound, still clinging to my bitter sentiments and feeling a cynical air rise around my body. "He'll never change."

"You don't know him like I do," the Plaid Coat tries to counter, unfurling himself to lash out against me. I sigh heavily. "He just got scared that, you know, someone would find out, and…" He trails off, beyond babbling his point. If anyone is scared it is the sweet Plaid Coat. I cast my gaze behind me to see the acoustic looking on with some semblance of a melancholy expression.

"Okay," I sigh again, turning back to the Plaid Coat. His entire essence brightens and he nearly hurls himself across the gap spanning the distance between the couch and the small table. But before he can do so I halt him with my one condition of surrender. "At least let us help you"

"I promise you I can help him." The Plaid Coat says again, more determined than ever to show his own worth.

"Plaid…"

"Just let me try it my way and, and if it doesn't work I'll come to you and the Acoustic." At least we made some progress. I can only hope that while he is trying so hard to help his Fender the poor thing doesn't get his heart broken. "Okay?" He prompts me to agree.

"Alright," I concede and watch as he silently rolls himself over to the opposite of the couch. He lays himself across the arm, looking at the Fender and waiting patiently until they are alone to pounce.

* * *

A few hours after the little heart-to-heart chitchat with the Plaid Coat, my Mark and his Roger stumbled into the loft. Actually, almost anyone could probably hear their tired footsteps clunking up the steps almost a mile away, thus my Beautiful Acoustic and I were not unintentionally interrupted from our rather intimate 'talking.' Well, like we would really be doing anything more than snuggle with the Plaid Coat and the slumbering Fender and Amp only a few feet away. Florescent light floods into the loft from the hallway as they slowly drag open the heavy metal door. Everything is awash in the harsh light, only extending a few feet inside the dark loft. My Mark makes his way over to the couch in the faint light, looking boneless as his head falls against the back of the sofa, heaving a deep sigh. I hear a few curses as Roger slides the loft door closed and precedes to trip over a few objects as he tries to find my Mark. After nearly breaking his neck on a discarded film canister he finally plops down beside my Mark on the couch, throwing a comforting arm around my tired filmmaker.

Obviously it had been a rather eventful dinner, but then again any night in Alphabet city with Collins and Maureen is a recipe for 'eventful,' if not disastrous—but only in the best ways of course.

"Mmmff, Roger," I hear my Mark moan into his Roger's chest as he rolls over to press his face against his Roger. He curls his body around the musician and I can see the faint moonlight reflect off his pale skin as he twists his fingers into the faded material of some old band t-shirt his Roger is wearing. The roughly callused pads of Roger's long fingers wrap around my Mark's shoulder, rubbing soothingly against the fabric of my Mark's old sweater. My Mark draws his knees up to his chest and shifts so that his heads is gently cushioned against his Roger's thigh. "Please explain to me how we got so entangled with crazy, squabbling lesbians?" He asks, only with a hint at the underlying playfulness of his honest question.

"Well," Roger begins in all seriousness, sliding his hand along the thin collarbone to run his fingers through the short strands of blond hair at the nape of my Mark's neck. As he cards through my Mark's hair he ponders for a moment before replying with a grin my Mark cannot see but rather hear twisting his roommates words. "I think it all probably started when you dated one," he teases, needling a little before my Mark rolls over to glare at him with knit brows.

"Not helping, Rog," he mumbles sourly, thwacking his Roger on his shoulder with a hearty smack of skin against skin. Roger merely continues to smile down at him, teeth glinting in the pale moonlight. I watch with a pleased would-be smile as he leans down to gently press a sweet kiss to my Mark's parted lips. I notice my Mark's wandering hand move from his Roger's shoulder to slowly wind his fingers around the back of the other's neck. I hear the soft sigh behind me as my Beautiful Acoustic slides silently up beside me. As Roger pulls away I see the difference in his smile, it is softer now, less teasing and more sincere than before.

"C'mon boy-o," he whispers with the same playful tone as he nudges my Mark's shoulder, moving to stand up. My Mark pulls himself into a sitting position, staying seated as he watches his Roger grab my Beautiful Acoustic off the table. With a small smirk of his own, my Mark pokes fun at his Roger.

"You'd probably sleep with that thing wouldn't you," he accuses lightheartedly with a leer before leaning forwards to pull me into his lap. Gentle fingertips caress my tiny body and I feel myself once again cradled in his warm, delicate arms and the would-be blush is on the edge of my senses.

"How do you know I haven't?" Roger counters, eyes wide in a slightly crazed look, flashing us a broad, toothy grin and I hear both he and the acoustic laugh heartily. I know exactly the look on my Mark's face as he rolls his eyes and I am tempted to do the same, if I had eyeballs, that is, as the two gingerly begin walking over to the bedroom my Mark and his Roger now share.

"Roger," my Mark calls after him with a tone of mock disgust at the other's unnecessarily lewd comment.

"C'mon," Roger singsongs back, his voice echoing down the short hallway to bounce around the empty room my Mark and I are sitting in.

"Fine," my Mark sighs as he stands up to follow his Roger down the darkened hallway. "I've got a lot to tell you," he whispers to me and I can feel my loose screws trembling with anticipation. Thanks to my Mark's nature I cannot help but be curious about all of humanity's temperament. I cannot wait to hear just what happened this time between that crazy Maureen and sweet Joanne. However, I do sincerely hope that whatever spat between the two happened is only another passing tiff—they really do fit well together, a good counterbalance to one anther.

I feel the loose bottom panel of my body gently collide with the plastic of the makeshift bedside table as my Mark prepares to record the small recap of the day's events for posterity. Roger is in the bathroom taking the last of his AZT for the day while my Mark sits himself down on their bed facing me. Like always he slips off the dark frames and sets them beside me. She is tired and only manages a quiet, "you're gonna love this one," before nodding off. With a smile, my Mark's deft fingers start pull and turn until I'm reading to record his image onto film. He fidgets with the angle of my eyepiece until he feels it is perfect and begins to speak. To begin with he just sets up the scene, where they were and who all was there, and I find myself recording him distractedly while looking around for Roger's acoustic that he wandered off with a few minutes beforehand. I spot him at the foot of the bed and by his expression he is also waiting patiently for my Mark to get to the interesting part of the story.

"So," my Mark's voice pulls me back in as I hear that telltale note in is voice that he has finally gotten to the real beginning of his story. "I turned to Joanne and start to ask her something about that big, high profile case that she is working on," he pauses to cross his legs on the spring mattress, leaning closer as he does so. "And out of no where Maureen start going off on some tirade about how Joanne is getting massive amounts of attention lately and that her next performance piece she's working on has had no publicity whatsoever," I can see the tired empathetic look in my Mark's as he explains. He knows exactly what it is like to live with that spotlight diva and her desperate need for constant attention. "You know I thought it was weird that she had been alright with it when Roger and I went over to their house…" My Mark thought for a moment, trying to rationalize Maureen's odd behavior. Before he could give himself a headache thinking about that subject he just sigh, muttering, "I'll never understand that woman."

"Anyways, so while Maureen has gone off on a tangent about her new piece Joanne just stays quiet, suffering a few apologetic looks from us guys and brushing off the whole thing," my Mark smiles to himself. "I guess she's used to it by now. However, the worst part was when our waitress came over," he stopped dramatically giving me a meaningful look to record onto the film.

"Mark," Roger's teasing voice cuts through the dramatic pause, dragging out the single syllable. My Mark actually yelped in surprise, nearly tumbling off the edge bed again. I heard a soft chuckle from the acoustic at the foot of the bed. I could only picture my Mark's Roger leaning against the doorframe looking on as his roommate babbles about the fight his ex-girlfriend and her lesbian lover had over dinner. "What are you doing?" He asks with that same mischievous tone curling around his words.

"I-I do this every night," my Mark explains anxiously. I can see the slight panic in his eyes as he stares off camera, worried that his odd little habit might just be too much for his Roger to take along with his compulsion to film everything else. Then again maybe Roger should have seen this coming. "It's kind of a like a recap of the day…" He elaborates and I see something shift in his eyes as he looks up at his Roger. "What? Don't look at me like that," he scolds with a faint blush creeping up the back of his neck to paint his cheeks a delicate pink color. My Mark's eyes fall down to stare fixedly at the dusty floor, anywhere but where his Roger is standing. The floorboards creak and Roger is now walking into their bedroom

"You are just so adorable," Roger whispers with open affection. I see a hand curl itself around my Mark's jaw, tilting his head back as I catch a glimpse of Roger kissing our Mark firmly on the mouth in the corner of my frame of view. As he moves away I watch him plant a little kiss onto the tip of my Mark's nose before laughing at our flushed filmmaker.  
"Either shut up or come help me describe the lesbians' showdown for the nice camera," my Mark suggests and I hear the bedsprings squeak in protest to Roger bouncing around on the mattress.

"The things I do for you," he sighs with an entirely believable put-upon tone befitting of the best suffering housewife. He finally comes into view, sliding up behind my Mark. His long legs fall upon either side of my Mark, strong arms wrapping around his middle as he rests his chin against the younger man's shoulder.

"Any chance to be on film," my Mark mumbles with a knowing grin, threading his fingers through with those of his Roger resting against his hips. Looking down at his shoulder he nudges his Roger's head with his chin, getting him to actually focus on the camera instead of their clasped hands. A devilish grin splits his face as he realizes just what kind of situation he is currently in. I watch as Roger presses his lips against my Mark's ear, not really knowing what to expect from the unpredictable young man as he allows a few hot puffs of breath to ghost over the flushed skin.

"There are so many more _interesting_ things we could be doing in front of this 'nice camera,'" Roger whispers in a low voice that sends my fresh film jamming for a moment before I think about the possibility of having this on film to watch over and over again and again. Another shiver racks my body and I shift a little on the stack of manuscripts my Mark has propped me upon. It's actually a better angle to capture the conflicted look on my Mark's face as he does everything he can to keep himself in check. The beautiful play of restraint flitting over his face while Roger's hands try to wickedly distract him from his misgivings concerning propriety.

"Oh hush," he finally hits the hands that had been slowly dipping below his waistline and into his boxers. "You debauched boy," he breathes out like fire on his tongue and it is quite possibly the most divine sound in all the world, next to the song and melody of my Beautiful Acoustic. "That's for later," now I really do skip almost a full foot of the glossy film, jumping ahead in the long series of frames. "Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?" My Mark finally asks when his voice is steady and he has got Roger's hands under control.

"Something about our waitress," Roger mumbled dejectedly as he settles for tracing circles along the backs of my Mark's hands. Eventually he joins in with the storytelling and explains with quite a lot of enthusiasm for the subject how Maureen began to shamelessly flirt with the rather attractive waitress—

"She was fucking hot," Roger added, receiving a pointedly annoyed glare from his boyfriend.

"Roger!"

"Well, nothing like my Marky here, but for a chick," Roger actually somehow manages to backpedal faster than my ex-Beloved.

"Anyways," my Mark says again, rather loudly, putting an abrupt end to his Roger's defensive jabbering. "Maureen and the waitress have this little thing going the entire night and when we get our food the waitress pretends she forgot who had what…" he trails off for a moment as I see the slight pressure of Roger's grip increase, signaling to my Mark that he wants to toss in his own to cents.

"Pretty tactless, absolutely no class," he begins. "Leaning over to grab the plate she 'academically' handed me so she could stuff her tits in Maureen's face, _please_." I watch with a slight would-be smile as Roger rolls his eyes, my smile widening when I see the one on my Mark's face. My sweet filmmaker is obviously quite pleased with the way that his Roger appears to have taken to the little recap. The couple finishes the story, mentioning something about Maureen actually getting the waitress's number and Joanne pretty much telling her that she would either have to stay with us for the next few days—I visibly cringed at that one—or go off with the waitress.

"You can guess which one she took seeing as she is not with us at present. Either way you slice it I just hope it doesn't turn into anything really disastrous," my Mark sighed for the umpteenth time, pressing his forehead against the side of Roger's head. A small, bitter laugh fell from his lips before he spoke. "We might have to pull some stupid Hollywood-esc stunt on Friday to get them back together because Maureen without Joanne is a very, very bad Maureen and vice versa."

"Don't worry about it Mark, we'll think of something," Roger whispered kissing my Mark's cheek.

* * *

The next morning, Thursday, I found myself midmorning lounging on the stainless steal table beside my Beautiful Acoustic. I could feel the warm, metaphysical arms wrapped around my body as he hugged me close. We were discussing the oddity of watching my Mark only a few feet away editing the film he had capture over the week. He was splicing the new footage into a longer documentary that he had just recently started a couple weeks ago. Quietly working on his new film, my Mark was indulging in a sugared breakfast pastry Collins had dropped off earlier from a local bakery where they always gave him a discount for teaching the owner's son at NYU the previous fall. The entertaining part of watching him was that he had to be extra careful not to touch the precious celluloid with his sticky fingers.

However, just as he was about to delicately splice in a new scene, the rumbling of his Roger finally waking up pulled his attention away from the film. The acoustic and I watched as Roger stumbled over to the kitchenette, poured himself a cup of black coffee and paused to stare at the left over pastries. He gave them a long quizzical look, wonder how they got there.

"Collins," my Mark said in explanation and that was all Roger needed as he shoved one in his mouth and grabbed another. Making note of the fact we had power because my Mark was editing his film, I watched Roger's eyes land on his Fender Stratocaster. A grin pulled at his lips as he saw my Mark's Plaid Coat wrapped protectively around the sleep body of the guitar. Taking a sip of coffee he made his way over to the couch to inspect the prized instrument.

"Shit!" The sound of Roger swearing was slightly muffled as he nearly chocked on his pastry. Frantic, he placed the coffee mug on the small table in front of the couch and got down on his knees in front of Fender. I could see him pulling at the Amplify. Suddenly it clicked as he moaned in frustration. "My fucking amp is totally fried!" He moved the Amp to get a better look and I saw the completely blown out front and the frayed wires sticking out in all directions.

I was stunned to say the least.

"I told you not to leave the amplifier plugged in all the time, power surges and everything," my Mark chided Roger as he walked over to wrap his arms around the distraught musician. "You'll be able to buy a new one in a couple weeks after you start getting paid regularly, don't worry." My Mark's words only floated above everything else as the acoustic and I watched the Little Plaid Coat wrap itself tighter around the Fender Stratocaster, winking at us in a conspiratorial way. I could even see the embarrassed and somewhat regretful look upon the Fender as he gave the acoustic and I an oddly apologetic half smile.

There is probably a whole world of stuff I will never know about my Mark's Plaid Coat even if I tried.

But I'll do what I can.

* * *

**AN**: More? 


End file.
